


all's fair in love and war

by lightningbend



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Childhood Friends, Comedy, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Humor, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Minor Violence, Misunderstandings, Pining, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, and they were ROOMMATES, oh my god they were roommates, the usual romcom bullshit ft. some good old angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-04-17 09:23:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 86,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14185860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningbend/pseuds/lightningbend
Summary: Jeon Wonwoo is the bane of Mingyu's existence; his forever antagonist, his consummate arch-nemesis. The long-standing, legendary feud between them has become a constant in Mingyu's life, interminable and undying.Until he forgets the one and only rule of war that matters: don't fall in love with the fucking enemy.





	1. win first, then go to war

 

Contrary to popular belief, Kim Mingyu hasn’t always hated Jeon Wonwoo.

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, they were just two kids with a fierce, life-defining, fate-defying friendship. To this day, no one could tell you exactly _why_ or _how_ they started hating each other.

Most seem to write it off as a natural part of growing up: outgrowing old friends and childhood habits.

(Others claim that something went wrong: an incident, a fight. Something so unspeakably terrible they couldn’t come back from it.) 

No one knows the exact truth, or the whole story, and the only two people in the world who know would rather swallow glass than be forced to tell it. 

Kim Mingyu hasn’t always hated Jeon Wonwoo, but right now, in all his twenty-one years of life, he’s never loathed another human being more.

Wonwoo’s half of the room is a disaster zone. There are stacks of notes, books, and notebooks piled on top of his desk, beside his bed and in small leaning towers of paper in random places on the floor. His gaming rig is a latticework tangle of wires and cords protruding from a power board shoved in the corner under his desk. A blue sweater – Wonwoo’s favourite judging by the amount of time he spends in it – that probably hasn’t been washed in a few weeks lies draped across his desk chair and Mingyu can feel his eye twitching every time he walks past it. 

Mingyu’s half of the room is clean, well-organised, tidied to perfection with everything in its right place. He doesn’t know how Wonwoo can lounge in his bed with his stupid Nintendo Switch playing his stupid games when it looks like a miniature cyclone tore through his side of the dorm. 

He has a day’s worth of homework to catch up on but he can’t _concentrate_ on anything other than Wonwoo’s dirty laundry dangling from the edges of his bed.

And look, Mingyu can admit he’s not the perfect roommate. He’s loud, distracting, and noisy when Wonwoo needs absolute quiet for reading or studying; he’s clumsy and prone to breaking or dropping or mangling not only his own things but other people’s too. The former, he’s sincerely tried to work on, and the latter is something he’s long made his peace with.

At this point Mingyu’s convinced Wonwoo’s just fucking with him. Which is extremely easy to do, unfortunately, when you’ve known someone your entire life.  

Mingyu likes things to be neat; Wonwoo deliberately leaves all his shit lying around because he’s an asshole. Mingyu hates long silences; Wonwoo actively _gets off_ on watching Mingyu wither and die from the lack of attention. Mingyu needs absolute silence to fall asleep; Wonwoo likes to listen to shitty ballads before bed. 

And so it goes, everything about Mingyu and Wonwoo and the unending war of attrition between them distilled down to the simple, fundamental fact that they can’t fucking stand each other.

“Wonwoo.”

Wonwoo says nothing, as he’s usually wont to do. Not a good start but Mingyu persists. Take two: “ _Wonwoo._ ”

On the third try, Mingyu’s genuine frustration strangles any attempt at patience. “Jeon Wonwoo!”

Wonwoo, at last, looks up. Those dark, indecipherable eyes fixing on Mingyu with the casual disdain he might reserve for a mosquito buzzing in his ear.

“Kim Mingyu,” he drawls, voice low and unamused as his gaze flickers back to his book. “Who are you addressing so informally? Do I have to tell you to call me _hyung_ for the hundredth time? 

That’s another thing Mingyu hates but no amount of burning loathing can change; Wonwoo never used to fuss about informalities like this before.

“ _Wonwoo-hyung._ ” Mingyu grits his teeth, forcing a smile through the clench of his jaw. “Would you mind cleaning up around here before the weekend? I have friends coming over to hang out and I don’t want them to think I actually enjoy living like a cross between a hoarder and a homeless person.”

Wonwoo says nothing for a long, _long_ moment and Mingyu almost loses his mind waiting for him to reply. Just as he’s about to open his mouth in another informal outburst, Wonwoo lets out a single one-note hum. 

“Fine.” He flips his book closed, and slides off his bed, grabbing his jacket and backpack before he starts heading to the door. “Guess I’ll be out all weekend. Don’t wait up.”

The sardonic lilt to his voice has Mingyu nearly choking on his scoff. _Asshole._

Mingyu gets it. He does. Wonwoo hates him, too. And why wouldn’t he? They’re incompatible as human beings, let alone roommates. Mingyu hates living with him to the point that he’s sincerely considered transferring altogether and putting an end to this mutually assured suffering. The thought of disrupting his own education and his own life just to get away from Wonwoo, and doing anything that would even _remotely_ benefit Wonwoo, has always put a swift stop to any of his short-lived fantasises.

Just one more year of this. One more year and then they’re done. Wonwoo graduates in February next year. After that, they’ll never have to see each other ever again. And everything that’s ever transpired between them will be relegated to distant memory. 

Just one year. Twelve more months. That’s all he has to endure.

 

 

\-----

 

 

The trouble with living with someone who you’ve known since you were seven, an age where it was socially acceptable to have one whole friend, is that you know more things about them then you’d ever want or need to know. 

Mingyu can tell just by looking at Wonwoo’s face and the dark circles beneath his eyes how much sleep he’s had that night. He can tell how much he’s been eating, or _not_ eating, from the sad state of his shelf in the mini fridge and the lack of snacks accumulated on his desk. 

In the early months of the purgatory known as their current living arrangements, this was the kind of information he’d use to antagonise Wonwoo on a regular, if not daily basis.

A typical day would involve waking up, traipsing carelessly around the room as he went about his morning routine making sure to make as much noise as possible before heading to the gym. Wonwoo’s always been a light sleeper and, well, it’s hardly Mingyu’s fault if he prefers to sleep in till twelve.

Around dinnertime, or sometimes even lunch if he knew Wonwoo didn’t have class, Mingyu would bring his self-made meal into the room and eat it while Wonwoo studiously pretended that he couldn’t smell the delicious scent of bibimbap or japchae or jajangmyeon wafting over. Sometimes, when Mingyu was feeling particularly evil, he’d make homecooked ramyeon as a midnight snack and eat it while Wonwoo studied into the late hours of the evening.

His antagonism wasn’t always driven by pure ill intent, often it was out of straightforward vengeance. Payback for Wonwoo turning off his alarm the one time he couldn’t wake up class when he’d gone out drinking the night before. Or refusing to help him get into the dorm all the times Mingyu left his ID card at home. Or gaming till two o’clock in the morning on the nights before Mingyu had morning classes.

It was petty, and immature, and in retrospect the fleeting gratification he used to get from thinking up new and creative ways to ruin Wonwoo’s day was never worth the way his stomach would twist with a discomfort that felt eerily like guilt.

Mingyu doesn’t have Wonwoo’s cutting wit or razor sharp tongue. He isn’t cut out for cold, detached apathy and nonchalant cruelty. To everyone else but Wonwoo, he’s earnest and easy going and effortlessly kind. Mingyu likes being someone people want to be around, genuinely enjoys making people happy – being constantly driven by hostility and retribution had made him feel small. Juvenile.

Foolish, to let Wonwoo get so deep under his skin when nothing he ever did seemed to affect Wonwoo half as much.

When he sees Wonwoo later that night dumping his bag onto his desk and heading straight for the book he’d left on his bed, Mingyu can’t help but note that the shadows outlining the curve of his eyes look a little darker, a little heavier.

“You look tired,” he says, apropos of nothing into the still, silent air.

Wonwoo blinks, slowly as if he’s surprised to even hear Mingyu speak, before his brows lower, gathering in the centre like a seam pulled too tight.

“Excuse me?” 

Mingyu falters, the words stumbling at the tip of his tongue when he sees how quickly Wonwoo’s face changes. 

“I was. I was just saying...” He holds Wonwoo’s gaze knowing the moment he glances away he’s lost any foothold he has in this conversation. “You look tired.” More than tired, exhausted. “Hyung,” Mingyu tacks on as an afterthought.

Wonwoo’s eyes narrow, the angular slant of his eyes even more intimidating running parallel to the press of his lips in a flat line.

“And?” Okay. So, they’re onto monosyllabic answers now – Wonwoo’s speciality.

“Nothing. Just seems like you haven’t been getting enough sleep.” Mingyu hazards a guess it’s all the extra assessments piling up now that Wonwoo’s in his final year and the workload has almost doubled. 

“I would be, if someone wasn’t always stomping around blasting their awful music first thing in the morning,” Wonwoo snaps, the first real slip of something like heat in his voice.

Mingyu arches a single brow, biting his tongue against the urge to snap back. “I haven’t done that in ages, hyung. If you’re not sleeping well it’s not because of anything I’m doing.”

“You’re doing something right now by interrogating me about my sleeping patterns.” Wonwoo’s anger reveals itself in shades of subtlety – nearly imperceptible to the naked eye unless you truly know him. Everything up until his breaking point is a distant, simmering rage no less deadly for its restraint.

“As if it’s not hard enough trying to get through the day knowing I have to wake up to this every single morning.”

 _This_ , Wonwoo spits, like it’s some sort of curse. This, by which he means _you_.

Mingyu tenses against the chill of Wonwoo’s eyes, shrinking slightly at the unexpected bitterness he sees there. He’s seen every hint of frustration, annoyance and disgust in those eyes but the exhaustion that colours Wonwoo’s face, sunken in the unreadable black of his eyes is new, and alarming, and it makes Mingyu feel lower than actual scum. As if maybe he really is partially responsible for Wonwoo’s current state.

In the first moment of clear-eyed sanity he’s had since Wonwoo stepped inside the room, he surrenders his ill-conceived crusade. Not that there was much to give up in the first place.

“Whatever,” he mutters. “I’m sorry I asked. I’ll go back to being unbearable to live with just by daring to breathe.”

Wonwoo doesn’t even deign to answer. Which serves Mingyu right for even trying. What did he think Wonwoo was going to say? Was he really expecting Wonwoo to stop and suddenly bare all the stress and anxiety plaguing him to the last person in the world who he’d want to help him?

Of course not. Mingyu swallows, balling up the twisting feeling in his stomach his body keeps wanting to misinterpret as hurt and shoving it deep, deep down where he can’t be disturbed by it.

He brushes off Wonwoo’s coldness, and cold tone, and cold eyes, and slips into bed, tugging the covers over himself and turning away from Wonwoo’s side of the room to face the wall. 

Why does he care if Wonwoo’s sleeping well or not? It’s probably just his conscience keeping him awake at night as penitence for being such a dick all the time anyway.

Whatever. It’s nothing. _He doesn’t care._ Not even in the slightest.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“I can’t believe it’s been over a year and you two are really still going at it.” Minghao, to his credit, sounds mostly sincere in his disbelief. Granted, he also only moved to Seoul eight months ago, a whole two months before Mingyu and Wonwoo became roommates and this whole vendetta began.

Mingyu rolls his eyes, shoving a whole kimbap roll into his mouth a little more aggressively than necessary.

“What do you mean you can’t believe it? He’s my literal arch nemesis. We’re destined to hate each other for the rest of time. Or until one of us murders the other in his sleep. Whichever comes first.”

Seokmin snorts, swallowing around his mouthful of noodles before speaking. “Talk with your mouth shut, you heathen. And Minghao, you weren’t here for the beginning of the end. You should’ve _seen_ them back when it first started. I honestly thought you guys were either going to burn down your building or get kicked out before you made it to the end of the year.”

“Well, not going to lie, it _has_ occurred to me once or twice. Arson’s a hard bet but it’s probably also Wonwoo’s number one weakness given that all he does is surround himself with paper.”

Wonwoo would probably evencry. God knows the only things he’s ever really loved are his books.

“Isn’t he in his final year? He’s graduating soon, right?” Minghao easily brushes off Mingyu’s criminal proposition; he and Seokmin have heard him threaten to do as much at least once a week ever since he moved in with Wonwoo. 

“Just one more year. One more year and then I never have to see that bastard again.” Mingyu hisses triumphantly, punctuating _bastard_ with a particularly harsh jab into another kimbap roll that disintegrates under the force of his chopsticks.

“You’re really going to let things end like this then, huh? No making peace, no olive branch?” Trust Seokmin to try and find the non-existent silver lining. He wouldn’t understand, he hasn’t spent the last twelve months enduring the absolute worst of human agony that is Jeon Wonwoo.

“You don’t get it, Seok. There _is_ no making peace. Wonwoo would never stoop so low. And even if I did, what would be the point? Two more semesters and then he’s gone. He’ll graduate, find a job, and we will literally never have to see each other again. 

“Pfft. What about Seungcheol-hyung and Jihoon-hyung? Soonyoungie-hyung? Did you forget you two actually have a ton of mutual friends?”

Unfortunately, Seokmin has a point. Sometimes Mingyu forgets just how many mutual friends they have. With how much time Wonwoo spends inside their room it’s a wonder he has any friends at all. 

It’s not that Mingyu resents that Wonwoo happens to know nearly all Mingyu’s friends and sunbaes at uni but his life these past few years would’ve been a hell of a lot easier if he didn’t have to share his immediate circle of friends with his nemesis. 

“No, I _didn’t_. But that’s different. Seungcheol-hyung’s graduated. He’s got, y’know, a real-life job and Woozi-hyung and Hoshi-hyung will soon, too. We’ll only ever have to see each other at parties or performances and I’ve gotten _years_ of practice at avoiding him in public.” 

Seokmin levels him with a considering look, his usual bright-eyed expression tempered into something more solemn in his teasing. “Have you ever thought about how much energy you actively put into avoiding him? You spend more time talking and thinking about how much you hate Wonwoo than anything else you do.”

Mingyu splutters, incredulity warring with exasperation at the insinuation he’d go _out of his way_ to talk about Wonwoo. “Because ruining my life is all he ever does! Do you know how easy everything would be if it weren’t for Wonwoo?!”

“Easy, but boring. Admit it, Kim Mingyu. Your life would be dry as hell without that guy. When was the last time you even went out on a date, huh? Gotten laid?” Minghao lifts his brows, crooked smirk taunting Mingyu.

“Shut up! That’s – that’s irrelevant! And what the hell does me getting laid have to do with Wonwoo constantly trying to destroy my happiness?”

“I’m just saying, maybe you two need to grow the fuck up, get over yourselves and fuck it out.

At this, Mingyu promptly chokes on his half-chewed kimbap. Seokmin reaches over to thump sympathetically on his back until he can breathe.

Minghao shrugs, entirely unbothered. “It’s not healthy, but it works.”

“Wow. _Wow._ I can’t believe you just implied I should _have_ – that I should –– !” Mingyu coughs again, fumbling for his cup of water and downing the rest of it before continuing. “ _I can’t believe you’re suggesting I have…_ sexual relations _with_ Wonwoo _._ ”

“You can say fucking, Mingyu.” Minghao says, like he’s some bona fide expert. “Technically, the official term is _hate-sex_.”

Seokmin bursts into laughter, throwing his head back with sheer, high-pitched glee.

Mingyu hates everyone sitting at this table. He’s too stunned, and still recovering from his near-death experience, to speak.

“I’m talking purely last resort here,” Minghao demures. “You’ve tried everything from retaliation to outright war. And we all remember how _that_ went down.”

Ah, yes. The three weeks of hell in the second month of Mingyu and Wonwoo living together, otherwise known as the Battle of Gwanaksa, the three-week long prank war Mingyu and Wonwoo had waged till Mingyu had nearly broken an arm climbing the outside of the building trying to stage a prank on their seventh-floor room.

Mingyu still has nightmares every time he sees tangsuyuk, and clowns. Wonwoo, unfortunately, had looked as characteristically handsome as ever even with his hair dyed acid green.

“Just saying. Sometimes you’ve gotta’ get dicked to get closure. Might even help you two get over whatever unfinished business is lingering between you.”

Seokmin’s laughter trails off, the abrupt quiet stretching taut as Mingyu snaps his mouth shut.

Mingyu’s an open book when it comes to his life, his problems, his insecurities. The one thing he’s never talked about, the one thing that can get him to shut down and clam up is talking about _before_. This is the one thing that’s off-limits.

“Anyway. Minghao’s right, but not about the enemies-with-benefits thing.” Seokmin, always the peacemaker, smooths things over with a wave of his hand and a sunny smile. “You _do_ need to get out more, Gyu. A distraction would do you some good. 

“Don’t think you’re excused, I can hate you both equally. And I do get out! The art department’s always having parties, and when exactly I am supposed to have time for dating in between classes, society events, and all the extra training for the upcoming season?”

Seokmin just laughs, clapping Mingyu on the shoulder. “C’mon, Mr. Football Superstar, you can make time. What’s the point of being so tall and so handsome if you can’t get laid? Besides, you’ll have Minghao and I as your wingmen this Saturday at the Arts Society party. Aren’t you lucky?”

Seokmin locks eyes with Minghao, shooting him a cocky finger gun as Minghao sends him back a wink. 

Mingyu groans, his head falling onto the table with a loud, defeated thump. “If Wonwoo doesn’t kill me first I really am going to end up dying alone.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

So, apparently Mingyu shouldn’t have said that thing about Wonwoo and murder because as with most things in his life related to Wonwoo, the worst is always yet to come.

It’s Saturday night, Mingyu’s just spent ten minutes fumbling with the lock and he doesn’t even bother to flip the switch on when he stumbles in through the door, at last. – His first mistake, _of many_.

Minghao and Seokmin, true to their word, had spent most of the evening attempting to set Mingyu up with a string of increasingly terrible and embarrassing pick-up attempts. Mingyu had spent most of the night reaching for the closest bottle of soju to drown his humiliation in. Luckily for him, most of the people dragged into Minghao and Seokmin’s antics had been good-natured enough, and nearly as drunk as them, to play along.

Which, of course, had led to a round of shots. And then an impromptu dance-off between Minghao and Seokmin. More shots. Mingyu lost his shirt at some point (or was it stolen? The details are a little fuzzy after the third hour in), and had nearly broken some poor guy’s face when he tried to hype them up in the final round’s death match when he’d tried to high-five his friend beside him.

The world around him is still spinning as he staggers blindly over his own feet. Mingyu struggles enough with gravity when he’s sober; a _drunken_ Mingyu is a disaster with too-long arms and legs he never learned quite how to control after puberty hit and ran a homerun.

His knee slams into the corner of a bedframe, curses flying from his mouth as he doubles over, clutching at his leg with both flailing hands. The sudden, wild movement slams him off balance and he’s sent toppling, his hands scrabbling frantically to find for something to right himself at the last second.

The sound that comes from somewhere beneath him is immediate, and chilling, like the thinnest part of a bone shattering under pressure. Its barely a sound in the silence but inside Mingyu’s own head, the reverberations are deafening enough to drown out the shallow rushing of blood in his eardrums.

_Crack._

Wonwoo’s glasses. The glasses he usually never goes anywhere without, the onea he physically can’t live without. The glasses that were a graduation gift from his dad. Mingyu only knows about them because his mom had commented on how handsome Wonwoo looked in the photos Wonwoo’s mom had proudly shown her.

Mingyu approaches the glasses like he’s trespassing onto a crime scene, stepping across the yellow police tape onto invaluable evidence. And it _is_ evidence.

The glass spider webs out from the site of impact like a bullet hole. The worst damage, though, is reserved for the clean break in the bridge. The delicate titanium snapped in a jagged edge.

His hand is trembling as he reaches out to brush his fingertips across the shattered glass, the severed metal.

He is so, so irrevocably fucked. 

This is it. This is truly how he dies.

The next ten minutes pass in a haze of shock, the details blurry and obscure when Mingyu tries to recall them. He’s managed to tuck the two broken pieces of the glasses into a cradle of tissues. A quick Naver search of the brand name on the case had revealed that this particular pair of Pez Verde glasses retail for 225,000 won. 

More money than Mingyu could ever dream of scrounging up on such short notice, even if he dipped into the meagre savings he has left over from his old part -time job. 

 

 

 **mingyu:** you wouldn’t happen to have 200,000 won lying around right

**seokminie:** dude what the fuck

 **seokminie:** what the fuck did you do?????

 **seokminie:** 200,000 won???? ARE YOU IN DEBT TO THE MAFIA OR SOMETHING

 **seokminie:** oh my god are you going to die they’re going to kill you when you can’t pay it back. or they’ll take you and sell your ass to some creepy old rich guy oh my gOD

 

 **mingyu:** no wtf. no mafia but YES I AM SERIOUSLY FUCKED

 

 **seokminie:** i can’t believe they’re going to auction you off to some creepy guy mingyu!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

 **mingyu:** SHUT UP FOR A SEC AND LISTEN SEOKMIN OH MY GOD

 **mingyu:** i broke wonwoo’s glasses

**seokminie:** holy shit you were better off selling your body to the creepy old men

 

 **mingyu:** i know im fucked

 **mingyu:** HENCE WHY I NEED 200,000 WON

 **mingyu:** maybe i should sell my body fuck

 

 **seokminie:** oh gyu :(((((((((

 **seokminie:** i have it on v. reliable authority that ppl would pay good $$$$ for those killer abs and pretty face tho

 

 **mingyu:** im so fucking dead rifp

 

\-----

 

 

The awful thing is, Wonwoo, true to his word, had cleaned before Saturday night. Mingyu had opened the door, braced like a rubber brand with his breath coiled in his throat, only to find the whole room sparkling, spotless clean. To a suspicious degree, even. He’d never given Wonwoo’s bookshelf a second glance in the past but he could’ve almost sworn it’d looked like Wonwoo had _dusted_.

And then Minghao had shoved a bottle of beer in his hands for the night’s first round of pre-drinks and Mingyu had forgotten all about Wonwoo and where the hell hed might have found a duster, and that had been that.

Mingyu wakes the next day to a pounding headache, a perfectly tidied room, and the aftertaste of regret on his tongue he can’t attribute to drinking.

Wading through his memory of last night’s events is like pulling apart cotton candy only to feel it dissolve on his fingertips. With a sigh, he begins to pull himself reluctantly up onto his feet to find water and attempt a semblance of being a functioning human being. The sharp, unexpected pain in his knee jolts all the way through him like a spark of static electricity magnified throughout his whole body.

 _Oh,_ fuck _._

Wonwoo’s glasses.

Panicked, he surges over to Wonwoo’s desk where he’d left them in their makeshift stretcher only to find they’re not there. There’s just Wonwoo’s lamp, and a small stack of books and papers straightened into a perfectly neat pile.

 _Fuck._ Fuck. This is bad. _This is apocalyptic levels of bad._

The glasses being gone and Wonwoo being gone, also –– both the glasses and Wonwoo being gone can only mean one thing.

Wonwoo’s seen the glasses, broken, and knows Mingyu did it.

Mingyu’s heart stops, the blood in his veins freezing solid. Wonwoo is – _Wonwoo is literally going to kill him._ He’s probably somewhere at this very moment plotting his elaborate murder. He’d get away with it, too, with all the books he reads. _Non-fiction books_ , because only Jeon Wonwoo’s still reading non-fiction books in the twenty-first century for actual personal pleasure.

He’d know exactly how to kill Mingyu and get away with it. They’ll never even find Mingyu’s body. And even if they did, and could pin it on Wonwoo, he’d have the ultimate defence – an insanity plea. He’d claim that Mingyu drove him to it, that _this_ , this was the straw that broke the camel’s back and finally did it. 

A wild, feverish laugh tears out of him, more a kneejerk reaction of distress and astonishment than genuine laughter. Mingyu’s always owned up to the fact that he’s the clumsiest person over six foot that ever lived but he never thought having a habit of breaking things was going to one day lead him to his demise. 

He decides very quickly, in that one moment, if this is really going to be his last day on earth he’s not going to spend it in this room waiting for death. Mingyu grabs his phone, ignoring the shaking of his hands, and makes a run for it.

 

 

\-----

 

 

He’s not in the mood to commiserate about his impending fate with anyone, and doing anything else right now when all he can think about is the broken glasses and how Wonwoo’s terrifying, cold face will be the last thing he sees before he dies seems futile. So Mingyu does the only thing he _can_ do: he cooks.

Cooking is really the only activity he can do regardless of what mood he’s in. It’s calming when he needs it to be, soothing and quiet for when he needs a distraction, but it’s also fun and invigorating.

The scent of spice, ginger and onions mingling in the air in swirls of steam sends a thrill of warmth through him, melting the tension in his muscles and letting him breathe with impunity. Combined with the smell and sound of sizzling meat, the promise of delicious food unwinds the anxiousness locked in his shoulders and chest. Unwinding from a long, exhausting day or week or month in a kitchen surrounded by good food that he made himself is probably one of his favourite things to do in the world.

If this really is the last thing he gets to do in this world then there’s still a tiny chance he could die without anything major regrets.

Mingyu plates up the food, adding a sprinkle of chives to garnish. The delicious smells, as always, have attracted a small crowd of hungry vultures and Mingyu leaves them the leftovers to fight over, batting away their crows of gratitude with a boyish grin.

After a year of living in the dorms and being one of, if not _the only_ , undergrad who can cook in a building of hundreds, he’s learned his lesson. Better to make a little extra and adjust his ingredients than be forced to face a trail of starving faces when he makes the long trek back to his room.

When he gets to dorm room no. 782, he pauses, staring at the closed door with a mixture of dread, and helplessness. Without any hands to properly knock, his only remaining option is to head butt the door. Of course, slamming his head repeatedly against a solid surface also seems entirely too appropriate for his current situation. 

There’s no answer, which is to be expected, but Mingyu can’t stand here with these plates in his hands all day so he tries again. Mid-headbutt on this third try the door swings open.

Wonwoo’s standing there slightly bleary-eyed, in sweatpants, and a blank look on his face that makes Mingyu want to sink right through the floor just seeing it.

“…What the fuck is this?”

“Um.” Mingyu starts, panic and terror rendering him mute, and brief. “Food.” 

Wonwoo arches a single, dark eyebrow.

“Food. For you.” Mingyu mumbles, suddenly less confident than he was when he first came up with this ridiculous, ill-conceived idea. What the fuck _was_ he thinking? “To eat.”

Wonwoo gives him a long, wordless look. He turns, leaving the door open without a reply.

Well, at least he didn’t slam the door in his face. Small mercies.

Mingyu trails after him, feeling very much like a bad pet awaiting a scolding. He sets the plates down awkwardly on Wonwoo’s desk, wincing at the slight clatter they make against the surface of the table.

“I. Um.” He bites his lip, hard enough to leave an imprint. What, exactly, is he supposed to say? _Sorry, my clumsy, drunken ass broke your glasses. I know you hate my guts and everything about me but here’s some food I made that you’ll just have to trust isn’t poisoned?_  

“It’s ramyeon. And bulgogi. Nothing fancy but I… uh, made it the way you like. Or _liked_. It’s –– you probably ate already, though. It’s cool. It’s fine. You, uh, you don’t have to eat it ––” Mingyu reaches back down to clear the plates away, cursing himself for doing this so impulsively when it’s probably only served to piss Wonwoo off more.

“Leave it.” 

“W-What?” Mingyu stiffens, head tilting slowly to gape at Wonwoo. 

“I haven’t eaten yet. It’s only seven o’clock.” Wonwoo moves towards Mingyu, and Mingyu startles into action, leaping back almost half a foot in the limited space of their room to let Wonwoo sit at his desk. 

“Uh, r-right! Right. Um –– okay. That’s –– that’s good!”

Wonwoo stares at the food, expression imperceptible as always. He doesn’t look angry, or disgusted, though, which is a good sign.

“Oh! Here.” Mingyu reaches into his pocket, taking out a pair of takeaway chopsticks still in their sleeve.

Wonwoo takes them, sliding them out and snapping them with a quick, efficient flick of the wrist. He has his chopsticks poised over the ramyeon, seemingly prepared to begin eating, before he turns to shoot Mingyu a look.

“Are you going to stare at me the whole time?” Wonwoo asks, voice level, nearly monotone. It’s not teasing, or accusatory, or anything. Just Wonwoo being Wonwoo in his usual Wonwoo-esque tone. Mingyu flusters, taking another step back before deciding to scurry over to the farthest corner of his bed, long legs tucked in front of him and his arms bracketed protectively over the top. 

Mingyu fixes his gaze pointedly on the floor as Wonwoo begins to eat, and for some ungodly reason he can feel a bashful smile twitching at his mouth. After twenty seconds or so, he’s feeling brave enough to sneak a glance. Hesitantly, he lifts his eyes to peer at Wonwoo from a lowered angle only to find Wonwoo gazing placidly back. 

Mingyu chokes, hand flying over his mouth and his eyes flickering rapidly away. He slips his phone out of his pocket to scroll mindlessly through his Instagram feed as a half-hearted distraction.

The next few minutes pass with Wonwoo eating, slurping down the ramyeon and taking bites of the slow-cooked beef. Mingyu takes to staring at the ceiling and the wall when he isn’t trying to steal looks at Wonwoo to gauge his reaction, his current mood, his face.

Wonwoo startles him, again, when he speaks up.

“If this is about the glasses, you really didn’t have to.”

 _Fuck._ The peace was nice while it lasted. Maybe this show of goodwill means Wonwoo will make it quick and merciful.

“It is about the glasses, and _yeah_ , I do. I broke them.” Mingyu exhales, running a hand through his hair, frustration at himself and the situation he can only blame on his own clumsiness rising. “I – It was an accident but I still broke them. And I’m really sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything earlier and that you had to find out yourself. I was… I was drunk. I’m sorry. I would’ve told you straight away but I kinda fell asleep.”

Wonwoo doesn’t say anything, but he’s _looking_ at Mingyu now which must mean something other than him planning cold-blooded murder.

“You were _drunk_.”

“Y-Yeah. I… Well, you know how clumsy I am when I’m _not_ drunk. I’m sorry, again. Fuck.” Mingyu shrinks a little on himself, feeling very small and useless in his shame. “All I can do is say sorry, but I  I really am. I’m so sorry. I just  I’m so fucking stupid.”

“That’s a shitty apology.” Mingyu’s stomach drops like it’s plummeting from a fifty-foot height, and he can only imagine something similar is echoed on his face, too. 

“I – I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t –”

“No.” Wonwoo says, eyes settling on Mingyu. “I meant the part that involved you calling yourself stupid. You’re not.”

Mingyu opens his mouth, and then shuts it promptly.

“Clumsier than should be humanly possible, yes.” Wonwoo clarifies. “But not stupid. Don’t talk about yourself like that.” And just as easily as he’d started, he goes quiet again, returning to his food, leaving Mingyu wide-eyed and stunned silent. 

“... _What?!_ ” Silences with Mingyu never tend to last long. “This coming from the guy who’d happily take any invitation to insult my intelligence and did on many occasions all throughout last year!”

“That’s different. _I’m_ allowed to say it if it’s warranted.”

“You spell hypocrite wrong _one_ time. _One time!_ ” Granted, it was in red paint and splattered across Wonwoo’s bedsheets so if there was ever a moment for Wonwoo to call him out for shitty spelling, that was it.

“Still,” Wonwoo says. “It’s not the same thing. Being terrible at spelling and accidentally breaking things doesn’t mean you’re stupid anyway. It was an accident.”

“It  ” Mingyu blinks, a feverish look bordering on dangerously, tentatively hopeful lighting up his face. “Wait… You’re not mad?” 

“Well, I didn’t say that.” Mingyu’s face crumbles. A smirk curves across Wonwoo’s, painfully smug. “Although, it _would_ be unfair of me blame you for something you can’t control.”

“God, I really thought you were going to go off at me. I’ve literally spent the past twelve hours living in a state of fear and anxety.”

“Unfortunately, it’s not a crime to be clumsy.” Wonwoo’s still smirking, but something in his expression knocks the tension loose from Mingyu’s chest, and suddenly it’s easier to breathe. To laugh, as he lets out a ragged, incredulous chuckle.                                                                                                                   

“ _Shut up._ ” Mingyu huffs, flopping backwards onto his bed, loose-limbed and deliriously relieved. He’d been expecting an execution and instead all he got was this… strangely sympathetic, bizarrely _human_ Wonwoo. “You’re probably right. I think I’m a danger to society. I should be locked away in a room or something for the good of humanity.”

“Probably.” Wonwoo agrees, taking a bite of bulgogi. “But then I wouldn’t be able to eat your sad little home-cooked apology dinner.”

Mingyu buries his face in his pillow, letting a long, drawn-out groan in response before lifting his head so only his eyes peek out from the edge of it.

“I don’t know when I can pay you back so this is the best I can do for now. I’m sorry. It’s a weak ass compensation, I know.”

“It’s fine, Mingyu. I already said it wasn’t your fault, didn’t I?” For a reason Mingyu can’t begin to explain, at least not now, all it takes is Wonwoo saying his name to make him still. Chest falling and then rising as the beat of quiet passes and all Mingyu can hear is Wonwoo chewing softly.

“I guess. But still. I want to pay you back, and this is all I’ve got so… _so shut up and take it_.”

“What, are you going to force-feed me if I refuse?”

“Don’t test me, hyung. I’m stronger than you, remember?” Mingyu taunts, the beginnings of a self-assured smile hinted on his lips.

“When are you going to learn that brains always beat brawn? You’d think for someone who works out so much you’d spend a little more time on the muscles in your _brain_.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes, sinking his chin on top of his hands with a snort. “Whatever. Eat up, hyung. Your skinny ass needs all the help it can get.”

“Should I be concerned?” Wonwoo asks, chopsticks poised in the air with a strip of beef balanced between them.

“What, that I poisoned your food? I’ve thought about it many a time… but no. You’re safe, I swear. I’m not _that_ much of a dick. I wouldn’t break your stuff and then try to poison you, too.”

Wonwoo hums, popping the bulgogi into his mouth with slightly narrowed eyes. Whatever conclusion he’s come to about the possibility of Mingyu poisoning him, the food seems to taste decent enough to give him the benefit of the doubt. 

Mingyu watches him for a few minutes, torn between wanting to ask how it tastes, if it’s good, if Wonwoo likes it, and resentment at himself for wanting to know. 

He looks at Wonwoo, taking in his dark hair with the few, messy strands sticking up from where he runs his hand through it, his long, thin fingers curled around the wooden chopsticks, the slight shadow cast by the lamplight of his straight nose and firm jaw. He can’t remember the last time either of them were close enough to each other to notice these things. Before, when they were at each other’s throats all the time, he was too busy plotting ways to permanently knock Wonwoo’s smirk off his face and wondering how his hair would look with frosted tips and a chunk missing from his bangs.  

After their war had simmered to a more manageable hostility, all they’d ever see of each other was closed doors and empty rooms, the absences carved out by hollow attrition — anything to evade the torture of enduring the other’s presence. 

Right now, watching Wonwoo eat the food he’s spent the last few hours making, he’s struck by a nostalgia so strong it threatens to knock the breath loose from his teeth. It turns the warmth and light-heartedness of the moment, the warmth of feeling full just watching Wonwoo eat, cold in his stomach with a sickening churn of nausea.

He pulls himself to his feet, muttering something about needing to take a shower and disappears from the room without waiting for Wonwoo to say anything. 

 

 

\-----

 

 

Mingyu cooks for Wonwoo every other spare moment he has for the next week and a half. It’s part of a deal he makes with himself, feeding Wonwoo in exchange for the broken glasses he has no way of repaying. 

Minghao gives him an odd, almost _knowing_ look the first time he mentions heading back early one evening to the dorms to make dinner.

“You’re cooking _dinner_. For _Wonwoo_? What the fuck, bro, have you lost your mind?”

Logically, he probably has just as a by-product of spending so much time in close proximity with Wonwoo, but that’s beside the point.

“It’s to repay him, asshole, for breaking his glasses. Don’t get any ideas.”

Minghao simply stares, and Mingyu tries not to shrink under his all-too perceptive eye. “Alright, whatever you say.” Minghao shrugs, crooked smile already angling on his lips as he turns to leave. “Have fun with dinner, _Housewife Min_.”

He’s out of swinging distance so Mingyu lets him leave, scowling at his back.

Wonwoo’s an easy person to cook for. He doesn’t eat much on a usual basis unless reminded, usually by Soonyoung or Jun, but he’ll finish what’s put in front of him as long as it’s not seafood. 

For a twenty-something year old university student, Mingyu knows he has a pretty impressive repertoire of cooking skills. Within a week, he manages to make over a dozen different dishes, something new every time he shows up at their door beaming in spite of himself. 

A strange impasse has been struck between them, seemingly without them even realising it. In Mingyu’s mind, the whole week or so Mingyu’s been cooking for Wonwoo, he’s been working off a debt. This isn’t an act of _kindness_ or sincerity, merely compensation for his little accident. Still, the fact remains that their long-standing war has lost its spark. What used to ignite fire and wrath between them has faded into dying embers, still hot to the touch but by now, all but harmless. 

It’s a sign, Mingyu thinks, of a belated truce. Or maybe, in the end, they just got bored, stalemated, and deadlocked like they were. With Wonwoo’s graduation looming on the horizon and Mingyu’s various society events and sporting commitments, neither of them really have time anymore to play the same old childish games. 

Wonwoo’s sprawled at his desk gaming one night, bursting into random shouts and yells every now and then for his enemies to die or his allies to give him cover. If this were last year, Mingyu would be plotting ways to cut his electrical cords up or arrange for his laptop charger to go missing.

Wonwoo’s been stuck using contacts since the incident with the glasses, however, and Mingyu can see him rubbing at his temples every so often from the headaches he gets wearing them for long periods of time.

Instead of his customary annoyance, Mingyu just feels slightly guilty. It’s nearing midnight so the common area should be empty anyway; it’s a perfect time for a midnight snack.

And anyway, Mingyu could make ramyeon with his eyes closed, or blindfolded, or in his sleep. It’s nothing to heat a pot of water, fry up some slices of bacon, and crack an egg over the cooked noodles. When he returns, sliding the bowl onto Wonwoo’s desk beside his laptop, Wonwooo looks up with evident surprise. He shoves his headphones back from his ears with a hand. 

“You didn’t have to do this,” Wonwoo says, the disbelief apparent in his voice, too.

Mingyu shrugs, violently crushing the bashfulness threatening to warm his cheeks. “Eh, it’s nothing. I was hungry anyway so I thought… y’know, why not.” He sits at his own desk and starts eating from his own ramyeon, a clear out for Wonwoo to return to his game. 

“Thank you, Mingyu.”

Mingyu lifts his gaze to find Wonwoo looking back at him with a strange expression. Mingyu clears his throat, blinking away and digging into his food.

“It’s cool, whatever, you’re welcome.” Mingyu says, slurring around a mouthful of noodles. “I only did it so you’d shut up for a while and stop yelling so much about your game.” Usually, speaking with his mouth full would prompt some sort of wrinkled disgust from Wonwoo. Wonwoo doesn’t say anything, just lets a small, indecipherable smile lift at the corners of his mouth.

“Ah, I’m sorry about the noise. I’ll eat it well.” 

Mingyu steadfastly does _not_ choke on his food. Wonwoo doesn’t do apologies either, but this is also the first time Mingyu’s ever made midnight ramyeon for him so it’s a night for firsts, apparently. 

Wonwoo’s quieter for the rest of the evening, voice carefully lowered every time he has to speak.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“Mom, what? No, hang on, it’s loud here, hang on a second,” Mingyu jams his phone between his ear and his shoulder, collecting his books and backpack before heading for his room. The common room is particularly busy on a Friday evening and the usual suspects are sending him dangerous looks like they’re five seconds away from yelling inappropriate things in the background. 

“ _Anyway, what was I saying? Jung Hayoung, you remember her? Her father used to be your paediatrician._ ” Mingyu blinks, fighting back the sigh on his lips.

“Uh, yeah, I think? Why, what’s this about?” As if he can’t already guess.

 _“She’s always been such a pretty girl, don’t you think? Her mother wanted to know what I thought about setting you two up. Of course, I thought it was a wonderful idea._ ”

He knows his mum means well, he does, but she spends way too much time trying to match-make him the daughter of every friend, co-worker or distant acquaintance she knows.

“I’m insanely busy, Mum. I don’t have time for that kind of thing, remember?”

“ _I know, I know, but can you blame a mother for trying?_ ” Mingyu wants to argue but lets her change the topic as she tells him about how his dad’s up for promotion, general neighbourhood gossip, and the act of rebellion Minseok is trying to test her patience with this week.

He unlocks the door one-handed, phone still pressed to his ear and is distracted for all of three seconds when she starts in on him again.

“Mum, for the last time, no, I haven’t found anyone here either. I don’t have a girlfriend. –– What do you mean ‘Why not’?”

Mingyu glances up to find Wonwoo reading, shooting him a look of distress and exasperation as he gestures at his phone. Wonwoo snorts, brows arching wryly before returning to his book.

Mingyu sets his stuff down on his desk in a sprawl of notes and books before pressing the phone to his ear again. “Mom, I swear, you’ll be the first person to know next time a pretty girl decides to look my way,” he drawls sardonically.

Mingyu stretches out on his bed, letting the sound of his mother’s voice fade slightly into the background as he glances over at Wonwoo, his crossed legs, his slender fingers propping the book in his lap open.

“What? Yeah, I’m still roommates with Wonwoo.” A slight frown tugs at his mouth. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Uhuh, I’ll be sure to tell him. Tell auntie I said hi, too.” He hangs up, chucking the phone down next to him on the bed as he lies there, boneless and vaguely exhausted. Conversations with his mom always feel like a cross between an interrogation and a briefing session.

“Our moms had lunch the other day. Auntie says she hopes you’ve been eating and wearing enough jumpers.” Mingyu smiles teasingly at the reminder, as if he hasn’t just spent the last half an hour or so having every facet of his life fussed over and scrutinised by his own mother.

Wonwoo flicks him a sharp look, not nearly as amused as Mingyu thought he would be. 

“Good to know.” Wonwoo snaps his book shut, shifting to stand. “I’ve got work to do in the library.” With that, he grabs his laptop and leaves. 

What the fuck did Mingyu even say to set him off this time?

 

 

\-----

 

 

The next night, Mingyu makes yukgaejang. Wonwoo’s inexplicable cold shoulder yesterday is forgotten, replaced by the familiar comfort of making food, and the anticipation of Wonwoo eating it.

Mingyu snaps a photo of it to his Instagram story, because there’s no point having cooking skills this good and Instagram-worthy if you can’t use them to make everyone else jealous.

Seokmin sends back a pout, posed cutely with the puppy filter, and a request for leftovers.

Minghao snaps back two snaps captioned on black backgrounds: “ _FOR A CERTAIN JEON WONWOO HUH_ ”, and “ _CAUSE THIS IS TOTALLY THE KINDA SHIT U DO WHEN U HATE SOMEONE_ ”.

Mingyu snaps Seokmin a scrunchy-eyed smile and a promise to cook for him next week, and sends Minghao a close-up of his face with his middle finger.

Not that a dozen or so meals are enough to repay the cost of his glasses, but after tonight Mingyu thinks the amount of labour and emotional effort he’s put into cooking is nearly enough to hold him over until he can make some more money working during the holidays. As much as he loves cooking, the grocery bill he’s racked up over the past week and a half has already burned a significant hole through his wallet. 

He pushes into their room back first, carrying Wonwoo’s bowl over to his desk only to find there’s no space for it.

Wonwoo has his fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose, a book open beside his laptop scrawled with haphazard notes and entire sections crossed out with dark scribbles. 

“Uh, hey.” Mingyu says. “I made dinner.”

His voice sounds timid, even to him, and he hates it. What the fuck does he have to be nervous or hesitant about? It’s not his fault Wonwoo’s always five seconds away from descending into a shitty mood.

“I can leave it here, or… You could  eat it later, I guess?” His words wing up at the end in a question and it makes him want to bite through his tongue.

 _Ungrateful bastard._ He never should’ve done this for him in the first place.

Wonwoo’s jaw tenses, his fingers stiffening, but other than that it’s the only movement he makes, the only indication he’s heard Mingyu at all.

“Alright, well.” Mingyu shifts forwards, moving as if to clear some space on Wonwoo’s desk. He expects Wonwoo to be a cold-blooded asshole; he expects his standoffishness and apathy. It’s nothing he isn’t used to. 

“Would you just leave it, Mingyu  ?!”

What he doesn’t expect is for Wonwoo’s arm to shoot out, his elbow blocking him from moving any further at the exact wrong second. Mingyu stumbles at the worst moment, and his hand slips.

The bowl tumbles from his grip, splashing against his hands, legs, and finally the ground. Some of the spray has left little flecks across Wonwoo’s clothes, and notes, and desk, too. The spicy sauce stains crimson, a little like blood, from where it drips from his fingertips.

“Fuck. _Mingyu_.”

Amidst the shock reeling through him, all he can think is how the soup is going to stain the carpet and he has no idea how to get yukgaejang out of carpet. 

“Mingyu, I didn’t  I didn’t mean to  ”

Mingyu inhales, throat shaking with something he doesn’t know how to name right now. Wonwoo stumbles to his feet to grab for the tissues on his bookshelf. Mingyu just stands there, dripping sauce and soup, some noodles clinging to his pants, feeling like the biggest fucking idiot in the world.

Wonwoo had said he wasn’t stupid but Mingyu’s not so sure he was right about that.

Maybe he _is_ stupid. No, there’s no maybe about it. He’s _definitely_ stupid. He’s stupid for thinking that this past week and a half has been anything other than a waste of time. He’s stupid for pretending that this gesture of goodwill has been anything more than wishful, foolish thinking on his part. Above all, he’s stupid for thinking Wonwoo would ever see him as anything more than an inconvenience.

Wonwoo might not hate him the way he used to but Mingyu recoils from the flash of pure aggravation in his eyes like a flinch all the same.

More than all the money and energy and emotional investment he’s wasted, that’s what hurts the most. After all this time, Mingyu hasn’t grown hardened or jaded enough to know he’s fighting for a lost cause. Wonwoo’s always been sharper than him, more self-aware, less uselessly sentimental. He’s the only one still holding out for something more.

For the first time in a long time, Mingyu lets himself feel it.

All the practice he’s had in compartmentalisation, in shutting out the parts of him that want to fall soft, fold weak, with hope.

“ _Mingyu._ ”

It feels like forgetting how to breathe, his lungs falling out of sync with the beat of his pulse. Like the heaviness never far from his shoulders, the weight he’s been ignoring for years now is back, has always been here, will always be here, pressing down on his chest, tightening around his throat. The damning crush of it as inexorable as gravity.

He’d almost forgotten how easily Wonwoo could make him feel small. 

“Mingyu, wait  ” 

Mingyu turns, heart burning where it lies shipwrecked in his ribs, and leaves.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and this officially marks my first fic in the svt fandom, woo! next chapter will likely be posted in the next few days so strap yourselves in for the ride kids. 
> 
> find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/bisexualgyu).


	2. know your enemy and know yourself, and you will never lose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mingyu used to think he knew everything there was to know about Wonwoo. Once, he could have told you his favourite lyrics from his favourite song, the name of the book he reads when he's in a good mood and the one he reads when he needs a good cry. 
> 
> He could have told you that Wonwoo wrote his first short story when he was ten, and fell in love with the way the written word made him feel like nothing else could.
> 
> Now, he has a memory full of useless facts about Wonwoo that used to be true, and they're strangers in a battle that Mingyu never stood a chance of winning.

 

In the two years Mingyu has spent at war with Wonwoo, he’s learned that there’s only one thing more terrifying than Jeon Wonwoo’s wrath. 

Granted, anger is the expected reaction when confronted with incidents like having someone throw up all over your shoes in the first week of the semester. (A huge miscalculation involving too many highballs with some sunbaes, and forgetting his own room number.)

Mingyu hadn’t _planned_ on starting out on the wrong foot with Wonwoo. He certainly hadn’t intended to declare war right then and there on the night he stumbled home, wasted and bewildered and missing one of his shoes, only to throw up all over his new roommate.

A pair of ruined Nike Air Max shoes and the coldest good morning he’s ever received in his life and the rest, as they say, is history.

Wonwoo’s rage has always burned cold. It’s a clinical, calculated form of anger distilled to its most dangerous, and _unpredictable_. Wonwoo is the kind of person who can smile at you and ask if you’ve eaten while silently, and meticulously, plotting fifty different ways to make your life miserable. He holds grudges the way ice clings to the surface of the Han River despite the dawning of Spring, as chilling as subzero temperatures seeping into skin, into bone.

Mingyu can handle an angry Wonwoo. He’s endured every permutation of his rage. He’s seen a Wonwoo out for blood, fury so tightly suppressed inside him that he might erupt at the slightest misstep. He’s withstood the long winters of silence when neither provocation nor bribery could prompt Wonwoo to speak, to even _look_ at Mingyu. He’s outlasted it all, and with everything said and done, he’d bear it all again if it meant he didn’t have to feel this hollowness. 

This sinking numbness that tastes like bitter defeat, like the thousand and one things he wants to say, out loud, choking him every time he draws breath to spit some insult, or to choke out a derisive laugh.  

He’d take hellfire and high water any day over a Wonwoo that looks at him like he’s nothing.

He’d take a Wonwoo who hates him, _truly hates him_ , over a Wonwoo that’s become a stranger to him. He’d suffer a lifetime of resentment, and futility, and pointless feuding if it meant he didn’t have to live with the fear clenched like a fist in his chest whenever he thinks about Wonwoo, and how whole his life will still look like carved of his absence. 

(    _how cruel, your veins are full of ice-water and mine are boiling )_

The only thing more terrifying than Wonwoo’s wrath, Mingyu knows now, is his indifference.

 

 

\-----

 

 

When Mingyu shows up on Minghao’s doorstep later that night, Minghao takes one look at him and lets out a string of curses in a haphazard jumble of Korean, Chinese and Wonwoo’s name.

“That fucker,” Minghao mutters, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn patch of red on Mingyu’s shirt with a hand towel. “We need to make him _pay_.”

Mingyu just sniffs, running a hand over his face and through his hair, looking lost and small with such obvious defeat in his wide eyes.

“You can’t just let him fucking get away with this.” Minghao growls under his breath, lingering traces of the sheer murder that had manifested on his face when Mingyu explained what went down still hardened in his jaw. 

“You’ve spent all this time slaving away in a kitchen for this anaemic-looking asshole and then he turns around and treats you like _this_? Fuck no, his skinny ass doesn’t get to do that!”

Minghao grips his chin with a tight, firm hand, wiping at the specks of sauce that had made it all the way to Mingyu’s neck and jaw.

“I’m _tired_ , Hao.” A sigh slips from Mingyu’s mouth, wincing as Minghao tugs a little too roughly. Minghao _tsks_ , turning Mingyu’s face so he can finish his inspection. “I don’t think… I just don’t know if it’s worth it anymore.”

“What, so you’re really _not_ going to do anything? This is _it_? The thing that finally breaks Kim Mingyu?” Minghao says, disbelief furrowing in his brow.

Mingyu’s face twists into a half-hearted scowl. “That makes it sound like I’m giving up. Like I’m admitting defeat. _Surrendering_.”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing if you don’t get him back for this?” Minghao asks, not unkindly. He means well, of course he does. He’s Mingyu’s best friend and the first person who’d get in line to kick Wonwoo’s ass if Mingyu ever needed him to. 

“I don’t know what there’s even _left_ to do. We’ve gone through every trick in the playbook and even the ones that aren’t.” Mingyu purses his lips, lifting a hand as he begins listing them off. 

“That time we moved around all the furniture around in our room, and he nearly tripped getting out of bed."

 

1.  Some spontaneous ‘remodelling’ in their room in the dead of night before Wonwoo woke up, only to find his glasses and contacts temporarily ‘missing’. 

 

“Didn’t he almost break his nose walking into a glass wall?” Minghao says, voice tinged morbidly gleeful.

Mingyu coughs, nose wrinkling at the memory. Bodily harm was a line they’d yet to cross, at least intentionally. He’d felt genuinely remorseful, not that telling Wonwoo would’ve helped anything.

“And then Wonwoo retaliated by ruining all my laundry. Half of my wardrobe was pink _for the rest of the year_.”  

 

2.  A red sock had mysteriously found its way into Mingyu’s pile of whites on laundry day, one that had a suspicious match in a bright red sock shoved deliberately into one of Wonwoo’s shoes on full display by the door. Because Wonwoo is _that_ kind of dick when he’s got the upper hand on you.

 

“Joke's on him because I looked _fantastic_ in pink,” Mingyu mutters. 

“Sure, Gyu,” Minghao agrees, because he’s a good friend, but more importantly Mingyu had ended up giving half of his newly pink clothes to Minghao anyway. “Still, I kind of admire the move with the Big Bang tickets.”

“ _Fuck_ , don't remind me.” 

 

3.  Wonwoo posted an ad online for free Big Bang concert tickets with Mingyu’s phone number and Kakao ID as the contact. His phone was ringing non-stop for two weeks. He couldn't receive calls or texts from anyone else the entire time and eventually ended up remaking his Kakao ID and getting a new phone number.

 

“The sad thing is, I didn’t even get to go to the concert.” Mingyu grumbles. “We had, like, four assessments that week.”

“But the payback was almost worth it,” he says, roguish smile lifting at his mouth.

 

4.  Mingyu had enlisted the help of a computer programming major to alter Wonwoo’s keyboard so that every time he tried to type _die_ or _dead_ while gaming the word autocorrected to ‘ _fuck me daddy_ ’.

 

“Always a classic.” Mingyu grins as Minghao lets a snicker, tapping at his pinky finger.

“Then Wonwoo almost gave everyone food poisoning.”

“I want to say you’re being dramatic but _dear god_ , that shit was awful. How does someone who doesn’t even cook know how to make food taste so disgusting?” 

 

5.  Mingyu had volunteered to cook for their group of friends for a house party and had shown up with enough food to feed a small army. To this day, Mingyu has no idea what abominable combination of ingredients Wonwoo used to _ruin_ his food but everyone who’d taken a bite had immediately rushed to either the kitchen sink or the bathroom. Seungkwan and Soonyoung had spat their mouthfuls right out onto the ground.

Wonwoo, who hadn’t eaten a single bite of any of it had stood by watching Mingyu smugly as the entire catastrophe went down. Mingyu still gets wary looks whenever he cooks for his friends, which is _bullshit_ because he is an amazing goddamn cook, Wonwoo’s interference notwithstanding.

 

“Honestly, I have no fucking idea but the taste of that tangsuyuk still keeps me awake at night. He made _tangsuyuk_ taste like shit. How the fuck even.” Mingyu shudders at the memory, physically shaking his arms out as if he can exorcise the unpleasant taste from his mind. 

“Then I signed him up for that creepy ‘Rent an Oppa’ service.” Mingyu switches hands, checking off his thumb with the tap of a finger.

 

6.  The tourism service in question, _Oh My Oppa_ , was a real, albeit dubiously legitimate, company providing ‘oppas’ for visiting tourists to hire for a day. Wonwoo had attempted to back out but thanks to Mingyu’s commitment to the prank (and eye for detail, namely the fine print on the ‘contract’ he’d signed in Wonwoo’s name), he’d been forced to entertain one of the client that had already paid for her date.

Mingyu, and a bunch of their friends, had shown up at the agreed time Wonwoo was meant to meet the client and spent fifteen minutes taking photos for the girl and her oppa for the day. Mingyu still has the pictures saved on his phone, for future blackmail purposes. 

 

“Serves him right,” Minghao demures. “I hear from Soonyoung that she still texts him every week or so on Kakao. She’s very convinced they’re in some kind of long distance relationship and wants to come back next year to be with her _oppa_.”

“I wish her and her _Wonwoo-oppa_ all the happiness in life,” Mingyu chokes out through his laughter. “Anyway we’re even for that after the stunt _he_ pulled.”  

 

7.  Wonwoo had, presumably, paid someone to, very publicly, comment on one of Mingyu’s SNS posts reminding him about his ‘monthly sexual health check-up’. The person had been kind enough to ensure him that five weeks post-testing was usually enough time for him to be in the clear but that it was ‘better to be safe than sorry’ when it came to being STD-free.

Mingyu hadn’t been able to pick up a single girl or boy for a month without being politely, or bluntly, turned down because of the rumours they’d heard about his sexual proclivities.

 

“My best friend, the poster boy for sexual health and awareness,” Minghao teases. “You’re lucky Seokmin and I came up with a way to turn that around for you.” The university’s student services society had been looking for an unofficial spokesperson for their safe sex awareness campaign and Minghao and Seokmin had volunteered Mingyu’s name.

Suffice to say, after that, his reputation had taken a 180. Mingyu had never been much of a dedicated playboy before that, but apparently knowing your potential partner was clean and safe was a pretty significant turn-on.

“Safe is the new sexy after all,” Mingyu says, winking. Minghao snorts, smacking him in the face with his towel.

“He fucked with my sex life, so I fucked with what he loves the most in the world: his books.”

“Don’t forget the green hair. That’s still one of my favourites.” 

“Ah, yes. Acid green Wonwoo. _Truly iconic._ ”

 

8.  Acid green Wonwoo had been the result of Mingyu lacing Wonwoo’s shampoo with green hair dye. The acid green had only last a week before Soonyoung took pity on Wonwoo and helped tone his hair for him every other day, turning the violent neon shade into a lighter pastel mint green.

(Wonwoo had looked… admittedly, _extremely, unfairly fucking good_. Mingyu’s still not really sure this was a point in his favour.)

 

“You looked like matching oompa loompas, it _was_ iconic.”

Mingyu chokes, lurching forwards to tackle Minghao as he bursts into laughter. “ _Shut up_ , I haven’t looked at orange the same way since.” 

 

9.  Naturally, Wonwoo had his revenge by pulling the same trick with Mingyu. Except with orange hair dye. Except Wonwoo being Wonwoo, he took it a little further by ‘trimming’ Mingyu’s bangs while he was asleep.

Mingyu had spent the weeks it took to wash out with a beanie permanently jammed on his head.

 

“And then I glued his favourite books together,” Mingyu says, down to the last few fingers left. “Which, in retrospect, _big mistake_. Huge.”

 

10.  Mingyu had glued the pages together of a few of Wonwoo’s favourite books – the ones he keeps on his top shelf because of their beloved status in his collection, some of which Mingyu could pick out because Wonwoo is the kind of nerd who marks his favourite quotes with sticky notes and scrawled commentary, some of which Mingyu had known about from _Before_.

 

Admittedly, this is one of the pranks that came down to the wire of crossing the unspoken line of too far. It was not at this exact moment, but much later, and _far too late_ , that he knew… he fucked up.

“Oh. _Yeah._ The clown thing.” Minghao whispers the words, a touch of wariness to his voice.

Despite being a grown adult, Mingyu still has nightmares. He has nightmares about only two things: his dog, Aji, and the time she was nearly run over by a careless driver, and clowns.

 

11.  So, Mingyu fucked up with the book prank. This was something he knew from the moment he saw Wonwoo reach for one of the books, and the aftermath of watching Wonwoo’s face shatter in a hurt akin to heartbreak before going blank, seamlessly replaced by an untouchable detachment. It was at that moment, Mingyu is certain now, that Wonwoo began planning _the clown thing_.

Objectively speaking, Mingyu probably deserved the clown thing. It would even have been kind of hilarious if the whole incident hadn’t left him thoroughly traumatized and humiliated.

Mingyu isn’t a fan of horror movies, but going as a group to see _It_ was made bearable by the knowledge that at the very least, Seungkwan and Seokmin would be screaming just as loudly as him in the theatre. They’d gone to a midnight showing, because Seungcheol had insisted, and seeing a horror movie in broad daylight wasn’t deemed satisfying enough to rest of them.

The night after the movie had been torture, with Mingyu jumping at every shadow he saw and clutching his phone for light. Wonwoo had already gone to sleep when he came in, entirely oblivious to Mingyu’s suffering.

What, exactly, happened afterwards is still unclear to Mingyu, reality and nightmare blurred in the panic and visceral fear of not knowing what the fuck was real and what wasn’t. He remembers a voice calling him, his name, in that eerie, sing-song Pennywise rasp. He remembers slowly waking up, bewildered and disoriented, blinking open his eyes to see _fucking Pennywise the Clown_ standing over him with his mouth twisted into a terrifying, drooling grin.

He remembers Wonwoo standing there and saying “ _Hello, Mingyu, do you want to play a game?_ ” and feeling his fucking soul leave his body.

Wonwoo still has the entire thing on video. All of it. Mingyu screaming, flailing, falling out of his bed and running out of the room with nothing on but his boxers.

 

Out of fingers and stories to recount, Mingyu exhales, a sudden wave of exhaustion hitting him. “There's literally nothing left that we haven't already inflicted upon each other already. ”

“Still, I refuse to stand by and watch the bastard get away this,” Minghao huffs, frown etched deep into his small face.

“Well, Hao,” Mingyu says, spreading his arms wide as he flops down onto Minghao’s couch. “I’m all out of ideas. So, what’ve you got?”

Minghao presses his lips together, shifting to sit beside Mingyu. He crosses one leg smoothly over the other, a contrast of lithe grace and scheming concentration. “Maybe… _maybe_ you just need to give him a taste of his own medicine.”

“What, act like an irreproachable dick with a permanent stick up my ass?”

Minghao snaps his fingers, gaze sharpening as he locks eyes with Mingyu. “That’s _exactly_ it. Freeze him out. Do the whole Ice King Wonwoo thing but do it _better_. Beat him at his own fucking game.”

Mingyu arches a brow, hope dawning hesitant, but steadfast.

“Beat him at his own game. Kill him with kindness.” Minghao says, a vicious smile on his face turning his soft, delicate features all the more devious. “He won’t even know what to do with himself, and if he has a shred of humanity in that cold, dead heart of his, he’ll feel like shit and you won’t even have to do anything.”

“That’s… that’s actually not a bad idea.” Colour him genuinely surprised.

“It’s a fucking _amazing_ idea. I’m brilliant, and you’re welcome.” Minghao swings an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders and Mingyu nudges him playfully in the side.

“Thanks, Minghao. Really. I’d probably have lost my mind already if not for you.” Minghao just laughs.

“I know. But now _that’s_ settled, you need to get your ass in the shower because you stink, and I’m refuse to let someone who smells like roadkill sleep on the other side of my bed. We can finish plotting your revenge tomorrow.”

Mingyu goes, smiling, lighter and relieved despite the soup staining his shirt.

 

 

\-----

 

 

The next time Mingyu sees Wonwoo, he’s coming home from class and the awkwardness between them hangs heavy, thick and palpable. Mingyu plasters a nonchalant smile to his face, remembering the plan and Minghao’s words ( _be cool, be chill; don’t fuck it up_ ), and strides calmly over to his desk.

He lets the silence settle, content to watch Wonwoo suffer a little.

“Have you eaten yet, hyung?” Mingyu says, when the quiet has gone on long enough. Wonwoo jerks, head lifting as he shoots Mingyu a startled look. _Good_ , Mingyu thinks. He wasn’t expecting this. 

“I was going to make dinner but we both know how that turned out last time…” The corners of his smile stretch languidly, lazily to reveal the barest hint of teeth. Minghao had said _play nice_ , but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make Wonwoo squirm. It’s refreshing, to be the one with the unequivocal upper hand for once. To have nothing to lose. There’s no one at fault here but Wonwoo, and his tendency of being a raging asshole. 

“I ... ate already.” Wonwoo almost stutters. It’s so rare to see him falter that Mingyu almost breaks character, laughter tangling on his tongue.

“That’s good. You should take better care of yourself, hyung,” Mingyu says, head tilted slightly at an angle and his eyes widened with a deliberate guilelessness.

Wonwoo looks at him like he’s just told him he plans to drop out of university to pursue his dreams as a circus performer. He’s eyeing Mingyu as if he’s watching, _waiting_ , for him to snap. 

“Right…” Wonwoo drawls, voice missing the usual bite to his words whenever he’s replying to Mingyu as if only to indulge him. He hasn’t moved an inch since Mingyu came in, spine stock-still. This is fun, Mingyu thinks. More fun than some of his lesser pranks. Maybe he should’ve tried this whole _kill him with kindness_ thing earlier. 

“Anyway, I'm gonna go take a shower. You should sleep early, too, hyung. I hear there's a flu going around the dorms and getting enough rest is the best thing you can do to help your immune system.”

Wonwoo looks at him like he's announced that the sun is going to fall out of the sky tomorrow and aliens are invading. 

Mingyu tosses Wonwoo a small smile, eyes glinting as he turns and leaves, Wonwoo's incredulous gaze following him out the door.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Mingyu, as it turns out, is not as adept at this particular game as Wonwoo.

He isn't built for the patience required, the careful vigilance it takes to plan, and watch, and lie in wait. His instinct is to  _act first_ , think later; the waiting feels counterintuitive to every impulse in him demanding instant gratification. The only times Mingyu's ever thought two or three steps ahead were for the increasingly elaborate and complex pranks he pulled on Wonwoo. Even the minor things, like inventing new ways to inconvenience him in smaller, more unnoticeable acts of spite, required a certain degree of forethought.

It's taking everything in him right now not to storm up to Wonwoo, and yell and scream about how much of an ungrateful dick Wonwoo is until he's had his fill, thereby ruining his own carefully-laid plans.

Even the leftover pastries at work can’t comfort soothe the feeling of restlessness that’s plagued him since the yukgaejang incident. Joshua’s been flicking him pointed looks throughout their break together, and when he sees Mingyu poke half-heartedly at the slice of cheesecake before him, he apparently decides he’s had enough.

“Alright, _c’mon_ , out with it. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“What?” Mingyu blinks, attention pulled hastily from thoughts of Wonwoo, and how _satisfying_ it would be to arrange for his accidental collision with another bowl of yukgaejang.

“You only ever lose your appetite like this when you’re in a bad mood.” Joshua says astutely, eyeing him with that uncanny perceptiveness Mingyu’s never been able to fool. “ _Or_ , when it’s Wonwoo-related.”

Mingyu bristles, troubled by the insinuation that Wonwoo has that kind of power him. He loves cheesecake.

“Maybe I’m just not in the mood for cheesecake, hyung.”

“ _Liar._ ” Joshua says, without missing a beat. “Besides, I helped make that cheesecake this morning, I know how good it tastes.” 

Mingyu sighs. “You’re right. I don’t know. I guess it’s just hard to eat when I’ve got unfinished vengeance to plan.”

“And what did Wonwoo do now?” Joshua asks, amusement colouring his voice. Jv has been a firmly neutral party in the ongoing feud from day one, refusing to take sides but always willing to listen and lend his non-vengeance related advice.

“Long story short, I accidentally, ah, broke his glasses. So, to pay him back for it, I cooked him food every day for, like, nearly two weeks. _Two weeks_ , hyung!” Mingyu pauses, giving Joshua a look that hopefully impresses upon him the extent of his generosity. “Last night, I was bringing him yukgaejang and he was a complete dick about it and somehow managed to knock it all over me.”

“Wow. Are you sure it wasn’t an accident? You know, kind of like how you broke his glasses?” That’s Joshua for you, always believing in the best in people. Worse than merely optimistic however, he’s rational about it, too. The complete opposite of what Mingyu needs right now.

“Of course it wasn’t an accident, hyung, Wonwoo’s    _he’s_   ” Mingyu stutters, the sheer magnitude of how awful Wonwoo truly is defying description. “An asshole,” he settles for instead. “This is _classic Wonwoo_ , okay. Of course he’d go out of his way to ruin this, that’s why we can never have nice things!”

“Okay, let’s say Wonwoo really _did_ do that on purpose,” Joshua hums, and only because he’s _Joshua_ – sweet, good-natured, unfailingly kind-hearted Joshua – Mingyu doesn’t immediately leap to correct him. “I’m guessing you’ve already started plotting how you’ll get him back.”

“Well  and you’ll be proud to hear this, hyung  I’ve actually decided to take the high road. For once.”

“ _Oh?_ ” Joshua blinks, surprised.

“Mmhm. I’ve decided to be the bigger person.” Mingyu pauses, letting out a chuckle. “Well, I mean physically, I _am_ the bigger person. But I mean, figuratively. I’m not retaliating, there’s not going to be any revenge. 

“If that’s true, I _am_ proud of you, Mingyu-yah.”

“Yep. I’m going to smother him to death with the literal force of my niceness.” Mingyu says, lips curving into a small, vicious grin. "It's going to drive him insane."

“I spoke too soon.”

“It’s _hard_ , hyung,” Mingyu grumbles. “I want to yell at him, and make him feel like shit for spilling all that perfectly good soup all over me.” 

“Don’t they say revenge is a dish best served cold?”

“ _Cold soup_ is exactly what I was cleaning out of my shirt for two hours.”

Joshua makes a sympathetic sound in the back of his throat before reaching over to pat Mingyu on the cheek. “It’s just soup, Mingyu. And maybe for once you and Wonwoo will finally _talk_ instead of fighting over nothing.”

“Maybe,” Mingyu murmurs, refusing to get his hopes up for anything of the sort. Joshua packs away the rest of the unfinished cheesecake, leaving the rest for the other baristas to eat when they take their breaks. When he gets back to the table, he sits so he’s level with Mingyu, the delicate curve of his eyes gentle, but serious.   

“I know you, Mingyu. And you have an incredibly big heart. I know that maybe you feel like Wonwoo wronged you, and that he doesn’t deserve your kindness, but you have so much more space in your heart for forgiveness than hate.”

Mingyu curls in on himself at the note of honesty Joshua’s voice strikes. The word _forgiveness_ sounds so straightforward coming out of anyone else’s mouth but his own. _You don’t understand_ , he wants to protest, _you couldn’t_. It’s never been just about the petty feuding and every inconsequential battle. All the victories Mingyu has ever won have been pyrrhic victories. This war is nothing, _the outcome is nothing_. Mingyu has never stood to gain anything.

 _Forgiveness._ Just like that. Just because he’s capable of it. But Joshua doesn’t know how much bitterness his heart can truly hold. How could he? Sometimes the truth is too painfully brutal to speak.

“Whatever happens, I just don’t want to you to look back and have regrets.” Joshua sighs, lifting his hand to brush a strand of loose hair from Mingyu’s face. “Now put those sad puppy eyes away, we have customers to serve and we’re not going to make money if people are too busy feeling sorry for you.”

Mingyu lets out a chuckle, batting Joshua’s hand away playfully. Joshua’s right. Not about everything, but he has a point.

“Thanks, hyung. I’ll… take what you said into consideration.”

“Good. And I hid some of the cheesecake for you in case you actually get hungry later.”

Mingyu whoops, rushing over to fling his arms around Joshua in a backhug. “You’re the best, Joshua-hyung!”

“I am, and don’t you forget it,” Joshua says, tugging him out the door before they get caught dawdling after their break is over.

 

 

\-----

 

 

For the next seven days, Mingyu manages to keep up the act flawlessly. He never realised it before, but the majority of the time either of them ever had reason to talk in the first place was because he was the one initiating conversation. Even if it was purely to annoy Wonwoo, he was always the one to speak up.

The realisation only serves to motivate him more, reinforcing his determination to see this through to the end, and turning his cold shoulder to a wall of impenetrable steel and inexorable civility. 

He speaks only when Wonwoo addresses him, and always with an air of inexhaustible politeness.

Every time Wonwoo tries to engage him, Mingyu’s lack of a reaction seems to only frustrate him more. But Wonwoo’s self-control is far superior to Mingyu’s, and if it weren’t for the fact that Mingyu can read Wonwoo’s expressions like a second language when he’s angry, his rising irritation would be unnoticeable to the untrained eye.

At quiet moments, like in the night time, right as he’s trying to fall asleep, Mingyu finds his mind wondering to the things Joshua said.

It replays over and over, twisting and snarling into knots around his plans for Operation: Kill Wonwoo With Kindness, tingeing the whole project with a futility Mingyu is tiring of with each passing day.

What _is_ the point of this, really, if Wonwoo doesn’t break? Doesn’t get to his knees and beg for forgiveness sometimes fantasises him doing? What’s done is done, and the past remains as unchangeable as it’s always been. The Mingyu of three years ago has been abandoned there, too, left to fade into obsolescence. He’s better now for it. _He is._ Nothing that can be said or done will ever change that.

Mingyu comes home late on a Sunday night after spending all day studying with Minghao and Seokmin in the library. The lights are on inside their room, and Mingyu visibly steels himself before opening the door. The sound seems to distract Wonwoo from whatever he’s reading, and he glances up, only to sharply drop his gaze. He doesn’t return to his book though. 

Mingyu’s too tired to even count this small victory as a triumph, slumping onto his bed and feeling the ache of a full day’s worth of studying hit his brain all at once. 

He shuffles around until he has his pillow propped on his head, pulling his phone out to scroll his Instagram feed. From this vantage point on the opposite side of his bed, he can peer at Wonwoo from the corner of his eye without making it obvious he’s sneaking looks at him. Minutes pass in this silence, not necessarily _uncomfortable_ , but strange nonetheless because of the strained impasse Mingyu has forced their new normal to become.  

“Hey, hyung.” He says, testing the waters.

“…Mm.” Wonwoo doesn’t look up, but his answer is enough to reveal he’s interested.

“I’m hungry. What about you?” 

“I ate already. Also, it’s almost midnight.” Wonwoo flicks to the next page of his book, and Mingyu’s smiles a small, impish smile. 

“I think I’m in the mood for yukgaejang.” 

Wonwoo says nothing, eyes glued fixedly to his book. Mingyu peeks at him from over the screen of his phone, swallowing his chuckle, and swinging to his feet.   

“Anyway,” Mingyu says, moving to sit on the side of Wonwoo’s bed that’s right beside his desk, hands tucking over the edges as he folds his legs beneath him in cross-legged boyishness. “About the other night…”

Wonwoo _flinches_ , small and sharp. A barely there twitch of muscle in his cheek but Mingyu catches it with his own two eyes and _god_ , is it a glorious sight.

“About the other night,” Mingyu repeats, reminding himself to soften his smile even as his inner self is fist-pumping and crying victory. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.” 

“ _What._ ” Wonwoo’s entire face goes white, as if he’d felt the mere act of Mingyu apologising like a physical blow. 

Mingyu shrugs, the movement bashful and muted. “I don’t know. I guess… I know that I can be a bit   _much_ , sometimes. So, I’m sorry. If I was being annoying or whatever. I didn’t mean to… to bother you.” 

For all his talk of making Wonwoo suffer and choke on his own uncalled-for cruelty, that last bit… hits a little too close to home. Mingyu can _taste_ the sincerity of what he’d said, and what he’d meant, and it sits like bitterness in the back of his mouth. 

Wonwoo’s silent for a long moment, and then: “Mingyu.”

Here it is. The reaction Mingyu’s been waiting for. The moment Jeon Wonwoo officially _cracks_.

“Mingyu, what the _fuck_.” 

On cue, Mingyu blinks, confusion flickering across his face as he begins to frown. “Hyu  ”

“What the _fuck_ are you playing at, Kim Mingyu?”

 _A game that you can’t possibly win_. Mingyu stares unblinkingly back at Wonwoo, making full use of his tendency to look younger, and more vulnerable when he widens his eyes like this. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, hyung.”

“ _This_   this… whatever the fuck this is. This entire week of you acting like everything’s _fine_ ,” Wonwoo hisses, his words cut down to the wire, baring signs of razor strain. 

“Maybe I’m not playing any games.” Mingyu says, voice soft and subdued. “Maybe I just want at least some of this to be real.” The truth runs like a vein through his words, too open and honest to bare to someone like this. Least of all Wonwoo. 

“Maybe I just want to live in peace in my own room, and co-exist with a roommate I can be nice to without having my every motive interrogated. A roommate who doesn’t hate me.” Telling the truth, in the end, is simple enough. Easy enough, when Mingyu can act like it’s just another manoeuvre in a well-executed plan.

Wonwoo’s face stills, and for the briefest flash of a second, Mingyu almost sees something achingly familiar. Sad, vulnerably bare, and _tired_. But it’s gone just as quickly, leaving nothing but the impression of an overactive imagination.

“I don’t hate you, Mingyu,” Wonwoo says slowly, the deep tenor of his voice low and measured with a cautiousness Mingyu would never think to associate with a confession so honest.

“I don’t.” Wonwoo pauses, and Mingyu is waiting, it feels like he’s _always waiting_ , for Wonwoo to say something more. Whatever he was going to say, he seems to think better of it, pressing his lips together and shifting in his seat to look Mingyu in the eye. 

“You should be furious with me. For what I… did the other night.” Mingyu lets the silence lull between them; he’s too used to the spaces between Wonwoo’s words, the things he means to say but doesn’t.

“I was expecting you to be _pissed_ , to storm back here in the morning to get your revenge. I thought you were just... biding your time. Lying in wait for me to let my guard down.” 

Mingyu snorts, the thought of Wonwoo _letting his guard down_ around him as far-fetched as Wonwoo seems to think his attempt at genuine kindness is. 

“Am I really that predictable, hyung?”

Wonwoo blinks, eyes flickering to Mingyu’s face. “No. You’re impossible. The moment I think I know what you’re going to do, you go and surprise me.” 

Mingyu… doesn’t know what to say to that. Here, he’d thought the carefully delineated rift between them, built by years of resentment and warfare, and then apathy, meant Wonwoo had stopped noticing things about him altogether.

It’s never occurred to him that Wonwoo might look at him now and find himself wondering who this stranger is that he used to know.

“I should be the only one apologising here,” Wonwoo says, and even though this is what Mingyu _wanted_ to hear, it still disarms him. Wonwoo, it seems, will always have a talent for catching him off-guard. “I was out of line. I didn’t mean to act like an asshole, or like I’m _ungrateful_ for everything you’ve been doing the past couple of weeks.”

Mingyu feels unsteady, uncertain what to do with a Wonwoo armed with apologies.

“I was exhausted, and I know it’s no excuse but I really… I really didn’t mean to knock the soup all over you like that.” Wonwoo glances down, handsome features shadowed by shame. “I was trying to wave you away but I guess I… kind of, miscalculated? I ran out of my last pair of contact lenses so I, um, honestly misjudged the distance between us.”

“For fuck’s sake  ” Mingyu splutters, the outburst sending Wonwoo’s head snapping up, features tight with apprehension and chagrin. “So you’re saying the whole thing only happened because you literally _couldn’t see for shit_? Oh my god. Why does this shit keep happening to us? First me accidentally sitting on your glasses, and now you unintentionally spilling soup all over me. All because I broke your glasses in the first place. Jesus fucking Christ, I really do have the worst goddamn luck.”

When he finishes, chest heaving slightly with the torrent of relief and incredulity slamming into him like a shot of adrenaline, he looks over at Wonwoo, his hair messy where he’s probably been running his hands through it, the indigo smudged like faint watercolours beneath his eyes lighter but not entirely gone. He wonders if Wonwoo lost sleep worrying that Mingyu was angry with him for something that wasn’t entirely his fault.

“Still,” Wonwoo says, “I should’ve been more appreciative about the food. And I haven’t gotten to thank you properly yet.”

Mingyu softens, _instantly_ ; people complimenting his food tends to do this to him. “You don’t have to thank me. I wanted to do it. I had to pay you back _somehow_ for inconveniencing you in such a huge way.”

“Maybe, but you’ve worked hard. So, I still want to say thank you.” The hints of a smile are curving on Wonwoo’s face and Mingyu doesn’t know what to do with that information. “I owe you at least one dinner, as my dongsaeng.”

“Well,” Mingyu says, drawing the syllables out as if he’s really giving it any kind of deliberation, “I’m not going to turn down an offer for free food.”

“Good. Thursday night then.”

Mingyu grins, and  miracle of miracles  Wonwoo smiles back. “Okay. Cool. _Cool._ Sounds like a plan then.” 

After that, Wonwoo starts getting ready for bed and Mingyu leaves to go to the bathroom, and process what just happened. All in all, it’s been a weird fucking day but hey, maybe Minghao had the right idea all along.

Who knew playing nice with your arch-nemesis could be so easy?

 

 

\-----

 

 

They have yukgaejang at a street stall on Thursday night, and it’s bizarrely, _inexplicably_ nice. There are no barbed innuendos disguised as harmless remarks, no hostility channelled through barely suppressed irritation. It’s almost normal. It feels so much like _before_ that Mingyu spends the majority night trying to convince himself the way his stomach twists at the thought is only psychosomatic.

The thing is, Mingyu and Wonwoo are two very different people when it comes to their interests, the things they like doing and talking about.

( _Before_ is another matter entirely, but it's also a barren no-man's land stretching infinitely behind them; better left buried, or forgotten.)

Somehow, even after years of distance and deliberate arm's length civility at best, and antipathy at worst, the atmosphere never strays into the territory of awkward. There's always been a balance: Mingyu's loudness and exuberance, his inexhaustible energy tempered by Wonwoo's calm and level-headedness. 

“Hyung,” Mingyu says, through a mouthful of food because what he lacks in table manners he makes up for in appetite, “Don't you think you should eventually learn to cook? You'll be graduated next year, working-full time, and you can't possibly eat out _every_ single night.”

“You have sauce on your face,” Wonwoo says, instead of answering.

“Mm? I do?  _Where?_ ” Mingyu straightens abruptly, scrambling for his phone to get a good look. Wonwoo shakes his head, chuckling as he hands over a napkin. 

“On your cheek.” Wonwoo gestures at the spot on his own face. Mingyu mirrors him instinctively, pointing to his left side.

“Other side. Your _right_ , Mingyu. And please tell me you've finally learned how to tell the two apart.”

“Shut _up_ , hyung! I was hungover, and _confused_. You can't expect someone to remember functional directions when they can barely lift up their head.”

One time in his first year, Mingyu had been rushing to an exam the day after going out all night drinking (a horrible idea, in hindsight) and had texted Wonwoo asking for panicked directions to the building he couldn't find. He'd ended up on the opposite side of campus, wandering around in catatonic anxiety, and showed up half an hour late to the exam. Miraculously, and no thanks to Wonwoo's  _shitty direction-giving abilities_ , he still managed to pass with a half-decent grade.

After a few seconds of watching Mingyu struggling, and utterly missing the mark with each swipe of his hand, Wonwoo sighs. He leans over, taking the napkin from Mingyu's hands and brushing it just under the arch of his right cheekbone. There's a moment, less than a heartbeat, when Wonwoo's hand lowers and suddenly their faces are inches apart and Mingyu is staring into the crescents of Wonwoo's eyes.

A strangled, high-pitched noise slips from Mingyu's mouth. He snatches the napkin hastily from Wonwoo's hands, face going an alarming shade of yukgaejang red.

“ _As I was saying_ ,” Mingyu says, clearing his throat.“You don't know how to cook, hyung. _Anything_. Other than ramyeon, and that's barely a dish. How are you going to _live_?”

Wonwoo smiles placidly, saying nothing about the shade of Mingyu's face and how closely it resembles the soup they're eating, but there's a distinctly sphinx-like quality to the glint in his eyes that Mingyu wants to wipe right off his face. “I don't know. I guess I haven't really thought about that.”

“Oh my god,” Mingyu gapes at Wonwoo, his eyes going comically round. “Hyung, you're _actually_ going to die. You'll waste away with no one to remind you to eat and I  ” Mingyu coughs, shoving a piece of meat into his mouth.

“Soonyoung and I will probably end up sharing a place anyway. We'll take turns ordering in, or _making ramyeon_.”

“ _Oh._ ” Mingyu hadn't thought about that either. But that makes sense. Of course Wonwoo would want to move in with Soonyoung. Freed of the university's tyrannical bureaucracy and roommate matching system, he'd finally be able to live with someone he actually _wanted_ to live with.

“Anyway, that all depends on _if_ I can find stable employment.”

Mingyu makes an indignant noise. “What do you mean _if_?”

“I'm majoring in _literature_ , Mingyu. And the publishing industry isn't exactly booming with business.” Wonwoo's frowning slightly, the look in his eyes hardened with a casual jadedness that rends at something in Mingyu's chest alarmingly close to his heartstrings.

“Wait, I thought you were gonna be an author? Like Murakami or Shakespeare or whatever.” Mingyu's brow furrows, feeling the space of two years of never talking to Wonwoo other than to trade insults swelling before him like a boundless sea. 

Wonwoo's gaze flickers to him, surprise registering in a brief spark of unguardedness.

“You remembered that?”

“Huh?” Mingyu squints at Wonwoo, waving off his strange little reaction, his features pulling into an unusual seriousness. "Your favourite authors, yeah whatever. I mean, why aren't you going to go into... you know, _writing_.”

“Because, Mingyu.” Wonwoo lets out a sharp  exhale, looking very much older and more world-weary than he has any right to, being only a year older than Mingyu. “I can't just   _write a novel_ and instantly become a successful, best-selling author. That could take years. _Decades._ ”

“Wonwoo  ” Mingyu cuts himself off, frustration rising with a flare of heat. It's a familiar feeling, one he used to have all the time living as Wonwoo's roommate and self-proclaimed lifelong arch-rival. He's never felt frustrated  _for_ Wonwoo before. The certainty set into the lines of Wonwoo's face, the resigned way he talks about eventually finding work in the publishing industry  and to do _what_? To read and edit and labour over  _other_ people's books?  it irritates Mingyu. 

“You've wanted to become a writer your entire life.” Mingyu speaks slowly, the weight of his words heavy with their own self-contained gravity. “So what if it takes years? Won't it be worth it if someone gets to read something you wrote one day, and love it?”

Wonwoo doesn't say anthing. He reaches for his cup of water, fingers tightening impercetibly.

“This is your _dream_ we're talking about here. Wouldn’t you sacrifice everything if you knew you could make it come true?”

“ _Enough_ , Mingyu.” Wonwoo says, soft, but with indisputable finality. “I don't want to talk about this anymore.”

So they don't. And nothing more gets said about Wonwoo's future, or his dreams, or his wanting to be an author and Mingyu  _remembering how much he wanted it_ ,for the rest of the night.

They finish their meal and Mingyu insists on splitting the bill but Wonwoo goes to pay nevertheless, ignoring Mingyu's protests.

When they're back home and getting ready for bed, both of them in that in-between space of sleep and awake, Mingyu turns on his side to face Wonwoo.

“Tonight was fun, hyung.” Mingyu whispers. Wonwoo doesn't reply, but that's okay. Mingyu smiles, cheeks rounding where they're pressed into his pillow. 

“I don't know when it's ever going to happen again, so... _thanks_.”

Wonwoo shifts, turning his head so he can look at Mingyu. And maybe it's just the shadows, and the way their room is never completely dark, but there's a flash of something on his face that looks wounded, and threadbare, and so very exhausted. As if this isn't the first time he's looked like that. As if the only time Wonwoo could dare allow himself to look like that is here, in this darkened room where he thinks Mingyu can't see clearly enough. 

(Maybe it's never occurred to Mingyu to look.)

“You're welcome, Mingyu.” After a beat: “Goodnight.”

Wonwoo closes his eyes, and Mingyu turns back to lying on his back. Tonight, like all nights, he hopes, and hopes, and  _prays_ he doesn't dream. Hoping has never left him anything but empty-handed disappointment, but it's the only way he can safely close his eyes.

“Goodnight, hyung.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

On Friday, Soonyoung announces that a bunch of them all happen to free on the same night and they're all going out, voluntarily or not. He spends the entire evening at Mingyu and Wonwoo’s dorm room helping Wonwoo get ready.

By the time they’re done and ready to leave, Wonwoo is in a leather jacket and tight black jeans and Mingyu wants to die.

It’s not that he doesn’t know Wonwoo’s attractive. But that awareness has always been safely relegated to the status of something given, an established fact to accept without any further acknowledgement. It’s different to see Wonwoo dressed like this, his every feature put on display, an open invitation for casual appreciation: dark hair ruffled and tousled carelessly, as if Soonyoung hasn’t spent the last hour fussing with it, tugging stray pieces here and there, falls just above his eyes. The crescents of his eyes, cut from obsidian and impossibly black, made sharper and more intimidating by the subtle artistry of Soonyoung’s steady hand. All leather and long, _long_ legs, the clothes accentuate the lean lines of his frame; the combination of sharp and slender a dizzying, _dangerous_ mix. 

Mingyu can’t look Wonwoo straight in the eyes, and spends the last few minutes Soonyoung spends on finishing touches with his eyes glued to the screen of his phone. 

 

 

 **minghao:** yo when tf are you guys coming??

 **mingyu:** idk, soon? they’re almost done

**minghao:** hurry the fuck up!!!!!

 **minghao:** anyone who takes longer than /me/ to get ready needs to check their priorities smh

 

 **mingyu:** i don’t know if i’m going to even make it out of here alive tbfh

 **mingyu:** soonyoung is fu c kin, RUFflING HIS HAIR AND SHIT

 **mingyu:** hE

 

 **minghao:** lmAOOooo

 

 **mingyu:** wwono

 

 **minghao:** dont u mean wonWow

 **mingyu:** SHUT THE FUCK

 **mingyu:** u P

 **mingyu:** IM TOO GAY FOR THSI MIGNHAO DO U UNDERSDTANd

 **mingyu:**  he's literally my worst nightmare why the fuck am i feeling some type of way about this i hate everything what the fu ck this is an injustice

 

 **minghao:** oh sweetheart

 **minghao:**  i'd good luck with that but lmaoooooo

 **minghao:** see u soon ~

 

 

Unfortunately for Mingyu, Soonyoung seems to have a sixth sense for exactly this kind of humiliation, and narrows in on him the moment Mingyu starts for the door looking like he’s about to run.

“Well, Mingyu, what do you think?” Soonyoung says, sharp eyes somehow gleaming even though the lighting in their dorm room is absolutely terrible.

“What do I think of what?” Mingyu counters, suppressing a wince at his wafer-thin defence.

“Wonwoo, of course.” Soonyoung tilts his chin, considering Mingyu as if he’s trying to pull his brain apart and see every inappropriate thought he’s ever had or might potentially have about said subject of discussion.

“I don’t know. What does my opinion matter? He looks fine, I guess. Whatever.” _Kwon Soonyoung_ , Mingyu wants to beg, _please_ , I have to live with this person and see his stupid, handsome, stupidly handsome face on a daily basis.

“What a vote of confidence,” Wonwoo says, and Mingyu can _hear_ the way he’s quirking his eyebrow from where he’s standing, eyes fixed to some distant point behind Wonwoo’s head. “I’m flattered, Mingyu.” 

“You’re welcome,” Mingyu swallows, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Can we _go_ now? I feel like I’ve been aged five years waiting for you to get all prettied up.”

“Oh. So you _do_ think I’m pretty.” Fuck. Wonwoo might as well punch Mingyu in the face right now because _that_ would be easier to live down than this. “You hear that, Soonyoung? Mingyu thinks I look pretty.”

“You always look pretty, Wonwoo. Tonight, you look _hot as fuck_.” Soonyoung flicks Mingyu a smirk and he can feel it physically singe against his skin with the power behind his smugness. So now Soonyoung has it out for him, too. _Fantastic._  

“Okay. Well. I’m going to start leaving and you two feel free to join me whenever.” Mingyu distinctly does _not_ look at either of them as he stalks towards the exit, flinging it open with more force than necessary and stepping out the door, Soonyoung’s laughter trailing in his wake.

Everyone’s already there when they arrive at the bar, most of them on their second or third drink already. Mingyu makes a beeline straight for Minghao who has a beer waiting for him and is an actual godsend. He downs half of it, ignoring Minghao’s snarky retort (“Damn, someone showed up _thirsty_ ”) and Seungkwan’s cackling.

Mingyu and Wonwoo have had mutual friends since high school. Seokmin was in Mingyu’s year, and Soonyoung was in Wonwoo’s. The rest they either met at university or through each other. The ongoing feud between Mingyu and Wonwoo has been a source of entertainment and an endless goldmine of idle drama from the very beginning. But as time went on the outright belligerence of their vendetta died out, gatherings like this became a lot less awkward for all of them. 

It’s been a while since they’ve gathered like this in the one place, what with the eldest of them graduated and juggling the responsibilities of full-time careers, and the various exams and society events and other commitments the rest of them still have to deal with.

Mingyu’s missed hanging out and not having to worry if Wonwoo will be in attendance, and if seeing him will ruin his mood. Before, their unspoken agreement was simply to ignore the existence of the other without ruining the group’s overall atmosphere. 

Right now, though, ignoring Wonwoo is proving to be a herculean task. His brain seems to be constantly fixated on Wonwoo’s presence, taking note of where he is relative to Mingyu and who he’s talking to, even when the rest of him is firmly dedicated to pretending otherwise. Mingyu doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him, but he needs to _stop_ before his lack of brain-to-mouth filer inevitably makes him do something stupid.

Mingyu decides to get another drink. When he gets back to the table, Seungkwan, Hansol, Seokmin and Joshua are clustered around the booth, all sharing smiles of varying slyness.

“O – _kay.”_  Mingyu says as he slides into a seat beside Joshua. “Whatever it is. Please _just say it.”_

“I don't know boys, should we?” Seungkwan, he usual suspect for general troublemaking, lifts a sole, arched brow.

“Be nice, Seungkwan. Who knows when all of us will get to hang out with Mingyu like this again.” Joshua looks over at him with a cheshire smile, and  _he's_ supposed to be the nice one so whatever's going on, Mingyu clearly has no allies left at this table.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Mingyu's expression slips into a full frown. 

“C'mon, hyung, you know what we're talking about,” Hansol says, exasperation edging in amidst the mischief.

Seokmin slides an arm around Mingyu's shoulders and gives him a playfully suspicious squeeze. “Y'know, Gyu... that  _thing_ , where you and a certain someone have been warring on and off for nearly two whole years now, making it virtually impossible for all of us to hang out in the one place without making it awkward.”

Mingyu winces, his canines digging into the bottom row of his teeth. “When you say it like that...  _Shit_ , guys, I  I _am_ sorry. I never meant for all our bullshit to get in the way of everything. I hate the idea that all of you got dragged into it.”

Mingyu and Wonwoo never explicitly forced anyone to choose sides, but when it came down to the wire, lines were all too often drawn in the sand. Knowing that this ridiculous war between them might have interfered with the rare opportunities for all their friends to get together and have fun sends guilt sinking like a stone right down into his stomach. Mingyu bites down on his lip, grip tightening around his drink.

“Whatever happened, or  _happens_ , between me and Wonwoo  I'm sorry it ever ruined things for you all.”

The somber mood that's settled across the table breaks when Seungkwan abruptly slaps at the table, and bursts into gigging laughter, Hansol close behind him. “Your little kicked puppy face when you think you've done something wrong, hyung. _Never gets old.”_

“I'm serious!” Mingyu protests, confusion and remorse sinking like a deadweight through his stomach. "For a really long time there I know we were making it awkward just being friends with both of us!”

“Mingyu,” Joshua says, his voice laced with humour, “We're just kidding. Was it super annoying having to constantly work around the fact that you couldn't stand to be in each other's presence for a year? Sure. Did it ever get old watching you two fight over the same old things? Of course it did. But you're both still our friends, and that's never changed.”

“Besides, where would we get our weekly entertainment from if not for you two?” Seungkwan adds, eyes lit up at the mere mention of gossip. Hansol's smothering a laugh behind his hand. “This was like having front row seats to the goddamn  _Olympics_ of pettiness. I wouldn't have traded you two and your stupid, overrated drama for the world.”

“You're... welcome?” Mingyu hazards.

“No,  _you're_ welcome,” Seungkwan promptly corrects. “For all of us unanimously choosing  _not_ to murder you in your sleep. Just because it was hilarious as fuck doesn't mean it wasn't also  _irritating as fuck_  having to deal with your asses.”

Mingyu sighs, gulping down a mouthful of beer before speaking.“I know,  _I know_. I'll say I'm sorry, again. On behalf of both of us.”

“Well, speaking of, this is officially the most chill I’ve ever seen you two in each other’s company. The last time was the hyungs' graduation party and Jeonghan literally threatened you both with blackmail to be on your best behaviour.”

“Seokmin, what the hell would you even remember about that party? You were gone and passed out under the table at, like,  _ten_ ," Mingyu grumbles.

“Point is, I heard what went down from a very reliable source,” Seokmin says, tossing a none-too-subtle wink at Seungkwan.“And I'm both impressed and proud of the progress you two have made. Congratulations on becoming slightly more functional adults.”

“Wonwoo-hyung's not even a semi-functional adult right now,” Seungkwan snorts. “But the sentiment stands, and I agree. So I propose a toast, to Wonwoo-hyung and Mingyu-hyung. For getting their heads out of their asses and hopefully into each  ”

“To Wonwoo and Mingyu,” Hansol cheers, hand slapped firmly over Seungkwan's mouth and his elbow jabbing into his side.

 _To the end being in sight_ , Mingyu thinks as the others echo the toast. He tosses back his drink.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Mingyu has decidedly _not_ been waiting for an opening to talk to Wonwoo. It’s merely convenient is all, when Wonwoo ends up alone for a few moments after Jun disappears to the bathroom, and Seungcheol and Jeonghan end up drifting to their own corner, perpetually lost in a whole other world together. Mingyu certainly doesn’t feel nervous about approaching people, _ever_. The last time he experienced anything akin to butterflies in his stomach was seventh grade when he decided to confess to the pretty sunbaenim two years older than him who was way, _way_ out of his league.

He’s not nervous. He’s fine. This is completely fine. Completely normal friend – or whatever they are to each other; _friends_ may be a little bit of a stretch still – behaviour. He saunters over to Wonwoo’s side, a friendly, harmless smile curving at his lips. 

“Seungcheol-hyung trying to get you drunk on highballs already?” Mingyu says, nodding at Wonwoo’s glass.

“He’s _attempting_ to. I think he’s enjoying the throwback to his uni days a little too much.”

“Take it from someone who’s had to learn this the hard way, _never_ ever agree to a drinking challenge with Seungcheol-hyung.” Mingyu can be reckless, and impulsive, but he knows himself and his mind, and remorse is counter-intuitive to the life he wants to live. Trying to take on Choi Seungcheol in a drinking game and genuinely believing he could win is one of the few regrets he has in his life.

“He’ll leave you high and dry and struggling to remember your own name the morning after.” 

Wonwoo’s eyes crinkle as he smirks and takes a sip of his highball. Mingyu gets momentarily distracted watching the line of his throat shift as Wonwoo drinks, the smooth arch made by the tilt of his head gleaming in the dimly lit bar.

“So _that’s_ what happened on the first night you moved into the dorm,” Wonwoo says, a knowing gleam to his eyes.

Mingyu groans, hanging his head and burying his embarrassment in his hands. “Maybe.  Let's not talk about it.”

“But where would the fun be in that?” Wonwoo hums, teasing smile playing at the edges of his mouth. Once, this might have been a provocation, the first shot in a drawing of hostilities. It doesn’t carry the same insinuations anymore, the sharp edges of their words worn down with time and age.

Mingyu laughs, lightness and quiet relief brightening on his face. “I’d like to think I’m somewhat better at holding my liquor now than I was then. I can’t help it, though, if I’ve got a face people find cute and impressionable.”

“Wow, Kim Mingyu. Nothings to say when it comes to someone else but you’ve got no problems showering yourself in praise, huh?”

“I’m also _very_ honest.” A roguish smile tugs at his lips, perfectly crooked.

“It’s true, you’re an awful liar.” Wonwoo lifts his brows subtly, as if daring Mingyu to argue otherwise.

“And you’re a little too good of a liar, hyung.” Again, there’s no malicious intent, but where Mingyu is a wide-open book, Wonwoo has always been a locked high-security vault. “They say it’s the honest ones you should look out for but they haven’t seen you act your way out of expulsion.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I was never going to be _expelled_.”

“But you _could’ve_ been. What kind of sane person puts on a clown costume and tries to literally murder their roommate by scaring them to death?”

“The kind of person who’s smart enough to get everything on film. Step carefully, Mingyu.” Wonwoo’s smirk deepens, his eyes seeming to darken, too, with playful warning. 

Mingyu huffs. “Honestly, at this point you might as well release the damn footage because I’m pretty sure every one of our friends has seen it in some way, shape or form already.”

“You have to admit it was pretty funny.”

“Oh, I’m sure Pennywise’s victims felt the same way. _Right before they died._ ”

Wonwoo lets out a chuckle, and Mingyu finds himself grinning helplessly back. He'd rather die than admit anything about the clown incident being remotely funny but he can give credit where credit is due.

“I always thought if becoming a writer didn't work out for you, you'd make a pretty good actor.”

“Really, now?” Wonwoo intones, a curiosity lighting on his face, tinged with amusement.

“Mm,” Mingyu says, committing to the rare compliment with a sharp nod. “Someone like Hyun Bin, or Ju Jihoon. The rich, arrogant CEO with a terrible attitude and a dark, mysterious past who could devastate a woman with a single look.”

“I think you've been spending too much time watching dramas.” 

“You wouldn't even have to try very hard. All you'd have to do is stand there and look intimidating and be all ' _I'm Jeon Wonwoo, I like reading deep books about philosophy and staying inside and have the soul of a seventy year old professor_ '." Mingyu's appalling imitation involves lowering his voice an octave and a half to mimic Wonwoo's pitch, his face contorting to resemble a dark, brooding Wonwoo.

The sound of Wonwoo's laugh, low and breathy, as half-tackles, half-armlocks Mingyu, tugs something loose from his chest, a treacherous warmth blooming from the cage of his ribs.

(This used to be his favourite thing in the world to do,  _making Wonwoo laugh_.)

Mingyu struggles against Wonwoo's arms  deceptively strong for someone who's mostly bone and the leanest of muscle  jabbing at the side of his stomach and yelling his triumph at escaping from Wonwoo's clutches.

“Kim Mingyu, you little brat,” Wonwoo gasps, the crinkles of his eyes matching the scrunch of his nose and it should be ridiculous, how easy this is. How effortless.

Because Mingyu hasn’t thought about their war, or hating Wonwoo, or how Wonwoo should be hating him, the entire night. They slip into the rhythm of this like two people who’ve known each other their entire lives, the back-and-forth as familiar as the air they breathe. Mingyu finds himself torn between resenting it, and luxuriating in the comfort of just  _existing_ in each other's company after so many years of stunted hostility and unpleasantries.

He looks at Wonwoo, and keeps looking, an undercurrent of urgency in the way he retraces the familiar lines of Wonwoo's face, smiling, scrunched endearingly because of something  _Mingyu_ did. 

Just a little bit longer, he thinks to himself. _Let me have this._

Apropos of nothing: “My birthday’s in less than two weeks.” The words stumble unsteadily from his mouth, like if he doesn't speak to fill the brief lull in conversation then Wonwoo might just leave.

“I know.” Wonwoo says smoothly, like he’s indulging him. 

“Um, yeah. So. I’m having a party. Nothing… uh, nothing big but, you should  you should come.” The invitation spills headfirst from his mouth before he can catch it, as if his brain has cut out like a broken engine but his lips haven’t quite gotten the message.  _What,_ exactly, is he hoping for here?

An innately outgoing social butterfly, Mingyu’s been handing out invitations left and right to people he met only a week ago; this shouldn’t be anything different. Besides, Wonwoo will probably say _no_ , dark eyes frosting over as he politely turns him down. _They’re not friends_ , Mingyu reminds himself sternly, teeth sinking into his lip.

“I mean, it’ll be everyone here and a couple other people. I know you don’t really like hanging out with a bunch of new people, especially when they’re drunk, but there’s… there’ll be cake! And like, everyone _you_ know will be there   ”

“ _Mingyu_.” Mingyu stops, mid-breath and mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open. Wonwoo’s expression edges into somewhere between a smile and a smirk. “I said I’ll come.”

Mingyu tries not to keep his chest from tightening at the flicker of warmth that kindles in his ribs, and fails.

“Oh. Okay. That’s   _great_. That’s awesome.” Mingyu stumbles, fumbling every word like he’s about to drop something breakable. “It’ll be a Friday. The Sixth of April.”

“I remember,” Wonwoo says. “It hasn’t been that long for me to forget.”

It really hasn’t. And perhaps if it hasn’t been that long, Mingyu can admit that maybe he missed this. Maybe a part of him, buried deep,  _deep_ down beneath all the childish war games and lingering resentment, has always missed this.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Mingyu is one of those people who unashamedly celebrates his birthday for the whole month  a month is being generous, it’s really only a week  leading up to the actual date. 

The party itself has been marked on SNS three weeks in advance. Mingyu has a running countdown in the Instagram captions of every photo he uploads starting from April 1st.

The six-day long celebration is tradition. As a kid, sometimes his dad’s business trips would coincide with the exact day of his birthday. They’d celebrate a few days before with his dad, and much to Mingyu’s delight, hold a second birthday party days later.

Joshua and a few of their co-workers throw Mingyu the first of his birthday celebrations, presenting him with a cake that Joshua baked and decorated in elegant swirls of chocolate and cream spirals to look like Aji. _Happy Birthday Mingyu_ in chocolate icing in looping cursive beneath her little gold collar. They sing for him as he stands in the centre of them pretending to look embarrassed as a few of the regulars gather to wish him happy birthday. 

On day three, Seokmin, Minghao, Seungkwan and Hansol gather at Minghao’s apartment. Seokmin makes seaweed soup for Mingyu and both of them prepare a veritable feast for them to eat while marathoning Mingyu’s favourite movies. 

On day four, the arts society hosts an event that is more or less an excuse to celebrate Mingyu’s upcoming birthday. He’s approached by nearly a dozen girls who have prepared gifts, baked goods and chocolates, and handwritten letters. It’s well-known that Mingyu is something of a campus heartthrob, but his warm, easy-going demeanour and habit of striking up a friendship with everyone he meets makes it impossible to properly _confess_ except on White Day, or his birthday. Mingyu ends up having to enlist Seokmin’s help to carry everything home.

Later that day after football practice, his teammates take him out for drinks, drinking games and a night of revelry that doesn’t end till four o’clock in the morning.

When the day of the sixth finally dawns, Mingyu is nearly bouncing off the walls with anticipation. His mum calls him to wish him a happy birthday and Minseo posts one of his embarrassing selcas on SNS, accompanied with a surprisingly heartfelt birthday message. She ends it with _love you, pabo-oppa_ , but the sentiment stands. His SNS is flooded with comments, well wishes and birthday messages, and he has a grin plastered to his face the entire time scrolling through them.

Wonwoo’s still asleep, and Mingyu considers briefly staying in bed for a moment longer in case Wonwoo wakes up and is the first person to say happy birthday to him in person. After an idle moment of staring at Wonwoo’s sleeping face, he physically shakes himself, deciding that pretending to still be in bed _just_ to wait for Wonwoo to wake up is ridiculous and decides to go find breakfast.

Wonwoo is gone when he gets back, but Mingyu shrugs it off. He’ll see him later tonight at his party anyway. Missing _one_ person’s birthday wish isn’t about to ruin his whole day.

He finishes his morning classes, and gets picked up by Seungcheol-hyung and Jeonghan-hyung who take him out for lunch at a fancy restaurant in Gangnam. Jeonghan slides him a wrapped gift that he says is from both of them which is as much confirmation of them officially becoming a couple post-graduation as anyone else is going to get.

At nightfall, he heads over to Minghao’s apartment to get ready. And despite swearing for weeks that he wasn’t going to surprise Mingyu at the last minute, Minghao pulls out a present and shoves it into Mingyu’s hand with a grin on his face. It’s a bound sketchbook with his initials embossed on the cover and a set of stunning graphite pencils Mingyu’s been lusting over for months now. Mingyu tears up a little on the spot and hugs Minghao for five minutes straight.

“I’m your _best friend_ , of course I was going to get you something for your birthday,” Minghao scoffs, straightening his jacket out and brushing some non-existent lint from his shirt after finally fighting off Mingyu’s attempts to cuddle him further into the couch.

“I know but I pestered you for, like, two months leading up to today and there wasn’t even a _hint_ that you had anything planned.”

“That’s because you can be stunningly oblivious sometimes. It's cute.” Minghao reaches up to fix Mingyu’s hair, leaning back to give him a once-over and then giving him a sharp nod. 

“Okay, Instagram photos first, and then we can leave.”

They spend the next fifteen minutes staging an impromptu photoshoot. Minghao takes about a couple hundred or so photos of Mingyu in various poses. He picks his favourite of them all, the one that Minghao tells him makes him look like a Lagerfeld muse, and posts a selca of the two of them.

When they arrive at the club, Mingyu is bombarded with dozens of people wanting to say hi to the birthday boy. Minghao heads off to get their drinks as Mingyu says hello to everyone, greeting each and every person that comes up to him.

It doesn’t dawn on him that he’s subconsciously looking for one face amidst the sea of them in the club beneath the technicolour lights until they’re three hours in and there’s still no sign of Wonwoo.

 _Which is fine_ , Mingyu tells himself. Wonwoo's probably just running late.  _Extremely_ late, but coming nonetheless. He said he’d be here; Mingyu’s got nothing to worry about. 

His attention’s stolen anyway by Seungkwan hollering for the birthday boy to do a round of shots. And after that, there’s birthday cake and singing, and the guys bring out a present that makes Mingyu choke up a little when he thanks them. The GoPro and accompanying accessories is ridiculously extravagant, but he promises them that he’ll use it well and films his first video of them wishing him a happy birthday and dissolving into cheering and whooping.

Someone, at some point, shoves a plastic crown on his head that gleams and twinkles gaudily in the lights, a rainbow spectrum of crystal gems embedded in the plastic. Mingyu loves it, and manages to hold onto it even after letting multiple people try it on.

For the next couple of hours, the night is a wild blur of colour, and sound, and laughter. He loses count of how many toasts he receives, but the world starts going hazy and vividly bright the way it does when the alcohol’s started to reach saturation around one. He escapes to the bathroom for some air, setting his empty glass on the counter and gripping at the edges of the sink for purchase. 

Splashing water into his face shocks some sobriety into his system. He takes his phone out, scrolling past new Kakao notifications and texts looking for the one name, the one face, that hasn’t appeared all day or all night.

And just like that, everything fades out into white noise. 

Wonwoo hasn’t texted or called him once. _Wonwoo isn’t here._

Through the haze of alcohol swirling in his mind, Mingyu plays the memory back for himself, focusing until he can hear it over the rushing of his own ears. _I’ll come_ , Wonwoo had told him. _I said I’ll come._  

The hurt hits him harder, sharper, than if he'd been sober, cutting through the numbness to sear right through his skin. His skin feels suddenly too tight, too small, and the breaths coming fast, rapid, shallow from his lips feel like lungfuls of smoke. His brain ricochets between the softening buzz and adrenaline rush clash of liquor and disillusionment, flickering from the present to memory to drunken wishful thinking. The fondness in Wonwoo's face as he said  _I remember_ , Wonwoo smiling, his voice like molten quicksilver, his face, the fan of his lashes as he blinks, close enough that his breath curls in the space beside Mingyu's lips and his heartbeat is a flicker of wildness beneath the skin of his jaw, and his eyes. _His eyes_ , fathomless black. The burning feeling that starts in his throat, spreading through his chest like a firestorm blazing through dry kindling, sets everything alight with a  fever. 

The one clear thought in the chaos of his head:  _did it always feel like this?_  

(To which the only answer is  _yes_. Yes, it did, and the only thing that hasn't changed is Mingyu and his traitorous compulsion for self-immolation.)

And then his blood goes cold.

Had Wonwoo planned all this: disarming Mingyu with banter and artfully-worded apologies, playing along with Mingyu's attempts at a stalemate, feeding his starving hope and stringing him along all for nothing? Was he always capable of such cruelty, or was Mingyu simply dazed and fooled, seeing and hearing only what he wanted to see and hear. Forever burning and burning and helplessly, hopelessly gone. Mingyu locks eyes with himself in the mirror, arctic clarity settling in his veins. He takes in the hollowness fixed in his eyes, the silk shirt and sharp jacket he'd worn that accentuated his broad shoulders and muscled proportions, the gaudy plastic crown still slanted off-centre on his head.

 _How fucking stupid does someone have to be_ , to want something so badly that everything they touch bears traces of that desperation?

“Hey, man.   _Woah_ , you okay there?”

Someone he doesn’t recognise, doesn’t even _know_ is staring at him with a guarded look of alarm. Mingyu follows their line of sight and finds his knuckles have gone bone-white where they’re clenched around the bowl of the bathroom sink. 

“Everything’s cool. I’m fine. Thanks, though.” Mingyu flashes them a grin, and stalks out of the bathroom before they can say anything else.

The thing about alcohol, and hurt, is that the alcohol augments _everything_. The hurt, but the rage, too. For Mingyu though, the rage wavers under the blunt force trauma of despair. Defeat. If this is what Wonwoo wanted, then he’s fucking won without having to do anything at all.

“Mingyu! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” Seokmin says, stumbling over to Mingyu with a grin lit up by liquor. He’s holding his alcohol somewhat better than most days, but he’s had just enough that it takes a while for him to process the look on Mingyu’s face.

“Fuck. _Gyu._ You okay, man?” Seokmin frowns, genuine concern fighting valiantly against his inebriation. “What the hell happened?”

Mingyu tightens his jaw, face stricken and locked in an expression of bare desolation. Seokmin curses, reaching for his phone and firing off a text before he comes to Mingyu’s side, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. 

“Fuck. Okay. I’m gonna get you some space and some fresh air. And water! Can’t forget about water.” Seokmin, true to his word, navigates them on a clear path to the roped off area of the club where Mingyu is meant to be enjoying his VIP status. Minghao shows up minutes later, eyes dark and worried.

“Gyu, what happened?” He says, close enough to hear even over the thumping bass of the music that’s now too loud and too suffocating even with competition from the rushing sound of Mingyu’s pulse in his ears.

When Mingyu doesn’t say anything, Minghao tugs him down to sit on one of the lounges, ducking his head right by Mingyu’s, their foreheads almost close enough to be touching. “ _Mingyu._ C’mon. It’s _me_. You can tell me.”

Mingyu  Mingyu can’t say it. Because saying it out loud makes it _real_ , and that means the full extent of Mingyu’s foolishness and blind naiveté has been the only real thing all along. 

“Mingyu.” Minghao’s voice is low and gentle, patient.

Mingyu mouth curves around the syllables, but it doesn’t sound like his voice when he says Wonwoo’s name.

“Wonwoo.” 

Minghao waits, patient as a storm.

“He didn’t come.”

Minghao sighs against his side, slender frame pressing against Mingyu’s broader one. “ _Oh,_ _Gyu._ ”

“ _Don’t_    ” Mingyu chokes. The way he should have, speaking Wonwoo’s name. In his haste to draw breath, the air catches in his throat, the taste of asphyxiation turned to grey and ash on his tongue. “I know, _I know_. I’m being stupid. Why would I...   why do I even fucking _care_? I’ve… I’ve spent this whole week celebrating with the people I love. All my friends, my family. It shouldn’t  it shouldn’t fucking _matter_.”

Wonwoo has always had a way of rendering everything else in Mingyu’s life irrelevant. Secondary.

“I'm just.” There isn't a word that can adequately encapsulate what Mingyu means. The uproar in his heart that rests of the cusp of fury and wretchedness, balanced perfectly between them both, as only heartbreak can, spearheaded by an unspeakable grief.

“Fuck him,” Minghao whispers fiercely.

“He was... he looked me in the eye and just  lied. Who the fuck does that, huh? Why the fuck would he say he'd do something if he was just gonna turn around and do the exact opposite?”

A glass of water is being pressed into his hand, and all Mingyu wants to do is throw it against the nearest wall just for the satisfaction of seeing it shatter. Seokmin sits at his other side, and Mingyu lifts his head long enough to give him a ragged, almost manic, laugh.

“Feels like déjà vu, huh?” Seokmin just clenches at his jaw, shifting to twine his arm through Mingyu's, fingertips splayed against Mingyu's. This is the one part of Mingyu that only Seokmin knows. He was there, through all of it. They never speak of it but he  _knows_.

“Me, wasted and rambling, losing my mind over someone who couldn't give a shit about me.”

Minghao lets out an anxious noise, lost and utterly out of his element faced with this ugly, drunken and defeated Mingyu. Seokmin sighs, laying his head on Mingyu's shoulder, his other arm coming to stroke lightly at his back. The movement lulls him into a restless quiet, rage deteriorating into a bone-deep tiredness. His vision dips and blurs, everything going temporarily nebulous, smudging in soft focus.

“I must look so fucking stupid.” His mind is trapped in a loop of two unbearable questions: Why does he care? And,  _how could he not?_  “ _I am_  stupid.”

Stupid for believing these past weeks have meant anything to Wonwoo. Stupid for thinking that cooking a handful of meals for Wonwoo, for wanting to express his support and belief in his dreams and personal ambitions, for wanting to celebrate his birthday with Wonwoo, could possibly mean to Wonwoo what these things meant to him. 

In the end, _he's_ the only one who's been trying, _he's_ the one still clinging to something Wonwoo gave up on a long, long time ago. If this war, and the cost of it, have taught him one thing, it's that a battle isn't worth fighting if it's there only person fighting for it.

“Why do I keep letting him do this?” He breathes, the words meant only for himself yet desperate, too, to be heard. “It's like... every time that I do, I'm asking for it to happen. I  _fucking_     All I had to fucking do was hate him.”

He swore,  _he swore_ to himself he'd never let this happen again. He'd never  _let himself_ be hurt like this again. What have these past two years of armoring himself and hardening himself against all possible weaknesses been for, if he's only learned that hope only breaks easier the second time around?

All Wonwoo has to do is say  _I remember_ and Mingyu's heart forgets how much he sacrificed, how hard he's worked to make himself untouchable. A look, a smile, a goddamn  _lie_ is all it takes to ruin everything he's built. 

Mingyu's eyes drop to his hands, boring into the marks etched into his palms like he expects them to suddenly begin shaking. “I really... I really thought I was done with this.”

And isn't that how this always goes?

(   Mingyu wanting, waiting,  _hoping_. Wonwoo holding the power to ruin him with a single word.)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY KIM MINGYU!!!!!!!!! to the giant puppy made of sunshine and happiness. –– unfortunately the only gift i have to show for my infinite love and adoration of you is this fic update. 
> 
> thank you to everyone who's left kudos / comments, by the way! i appreciate each and every single one of them and it's so exciting to know you're enjoying the fic so far. i absolutely love reading your reactions and thoughts, it totally makes my day seeing the notification for a new comment pop up. ch. 2 is the calm before the storm, so expect A Lot to start happening very fast very soon!
> 
> here's my [twitter.](http://twitter.com/bisexualgyu) and i've also got a [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/gyuwu) now, too, if you have anything you want to know about the fic or my writing!


	3. all warfare is based on deception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stars, the sea, and the sky. Or: Wonwoo shows Mingyu the stars, and breaks his heart by the sea.

  

Mingyu slips from sleep to awake slowly, consciousness dawning with the lull of a low, familiar voice. His skin feels warm, sun-drenched, the awareness of a distant brightness searing against the backs of his eyelids making his brow furrow. 

“ _Mingyu-yah._ ” The sound of his name soaks through him like a long afternoon of summer heat, like liquid sunlight.

When Mingyu blinks his eyes open, Wonwoo is peering at him upside down. Or maybe he’s right sight up and Mingyu’s upside down, his brain is still fuzzy around the edges, sleep-worn. Wonwoo’s lashes twitch as a smile curves at his lips, his eyes curving too into crescent moons. 

Mingyu lifts a hand to trace lazily at the shape of Wonwoo’s smile lines, the creases of his nose when he scrunches his face to laugh. Or, at least he thinks he does, because all he can manage in his languid, boneless state is the barest brush of his fingertips. Wonwoo chuckles anyway, batting his hand away softly and twisting his fingers at the last second so they’re wrapped around Mingyu’s wrist.

His skin is warm, soft, _impossibly soft_ , and he can feel stray grains of sand between their skin, the smell of salt in their hair and in the wind.

“ _Wake up,_ _Mingyu-yah_ ,” Wonwoo says again, and the sound of his name on Wonwoo’s lips is the most wonderful thing Mingyu’s ever heard. Behind Wonwoo, the sun silhouettes him in a halo of light, casting him and everything Mingyu can touch in a gilt soft yellow-gold. Wonwoo lowers his face towards Mingyu and for one breathless, gravity-reorienting moment, he thinks Wonwoo is going to kiss him. Instead, he dips so his lips are close enough that Mingyu can feel his breath fanning against his ear, the brush of him agonisingly intimate, a caress and a tease all at once.

Wonwoo isn’t even touching him and he feels like his whole body is ablaze, _aching_ to have him closer, to have him everywhere Mingyu can feel him, his skin, and his smile. Mingyu wants –- he _wants_ so much to reach for him and let his hands and lips speak every promise he’s ever sworn to keep secret. 

_“Don’t you think you’ve slept long enough?”_

 

 

\-----

 

 

In the morning, Mingyu greets daybreak like a sentenced man awaiting execution.

The nightmare of making the long trip from Seokmin’s apartment back to the dorms, and the suffocatingly small room he shares with one Jeon Wonwoo triggers a throbbing, pounding ache in his head that has nothing at all do with how much he drank last night.

Mingyu drags himself from Seokmin’s couch to his bathroom, curling miserably around the toilet bowl as his stomach decides to instigate a coup d’etat. He sinks back onto his heels gracelessly, eyes slipping shut and one minute drfting into two, eventually turning into an impromptu nap. Seokmin comes barging into the bathroom less than half an hour later, screaming about needing to pee or hurl, or both, nearly giving himself a concussion when he almost trips over Mingyu. Seokmin promptly lets out a screech in a pitch that could only possibly be heard by dogs, or dolphins.

Mingyu groans, rolling over onto his stomach before relinquishing his claim on the bathroom floor and staggering back to the couch like a newborn giraffe. 

Time slows into a strange warp, out of sync with Mingyu’s internal body clock and all sense of a few minutes or moments or hours ago and right now blurred into one incomprensible headache. Seokmin appears, like the still partially inebriated guardian angel Mingyu never asked for, and shoves some painkillers into his hands, along with a glass of water, forcing him to drink it all before trudging back to the kitchen, face grim and set like a man on a silent battlefront.

The prospect of breakfast is too daunting, and the likelihood of one or both of them accidentally setting fire to themselves or the kitchen too high, to even hazard an attempt at cooking.  

They decide to go out instead, caps and masks and sunglasses obscuring their sleep-swollen faces and bedraggled hair like minor celebrities in public disguise.

“I think we’re getting old, Seokmin-ah,” Mingyu laments, when they’ve collapsed into their seats, clutching at americanos hot enough to sear the skin off their tongues. “Once upon a time we could’ve partied six days in a row blackout drunk and still gotten up on Sunday in time for breakfast mojitos.”

“God,” Seokmin groans. “I don’t think I’ve gone this hard since our first year after finals week.”

“Ah, yes. I remember you challenging BamBam and Yugyeom to a dance battle where the points were somehow body shots. The next thing I knew you were singing Up and Down at the top of your lungs barely conscious. You climbed up on top of the bar — still not entirely sure how you didn’t die in the process — insisting that you could move your hips just as good as any girl group idol.”

“Yah! Kim Mingyu, you’re a bad friend!” Seokmin wails, slapping a cackling Mingyu in the arm before burying his face in his arms. “You should’ve stopped me, why didn’t you stop me?!”

“Believe me, I _tried_. I was halfway to dragging you off the stage but you screamed, “I’m Seokira and these hips don’t lie.” Honestly, I thought the performance was much more Nicki Minaj in execution but you know how you are at noraebangs...” Mingyu shrugs helplessly.

“Ugh, I hate Drunk Seokmin. He’s the reason for everything terrible in my life.”

“At least he prefers to keep his clothes on, unlike Drunk Mingyu.” 

Seokmin chuckles, face lighting up gleefully. “A helpless little baby deer learning to walk by day, thot extraordinaire by night.”

“Who’s a thot?” With tiny black shades devastatingly on-trend perched delicately on his nose - if not genuine Gucci or Yves Saint Laurent, then a very close approximation of - Minghao seems to appear from absolutely nowhere looking like he’s stepped off the runway of Seoul Fashion Week. He saunters over to their table as if a crippling hangover is the latest street style must-have.  

“Ugh, look at you. Five hours ago you were passed out on my living room carpet. “ Seokmin sighs despairingly as Minghao folds himself into his seat with the velveteen elegance of a ballerina. “Can’t you give us mere mortals a break for once in your life, Xu Minghao?”

“Thank you, but no. I have a duty to the people to look my best at all times.” Minghao answers graciously. He tilts his face, shades angling so he can take in Mingyu and Seokmin in all their wretched, hungover misery.

“I hate your superhuman immunity to hangovers right now.” Mingyu shrinks in around himself, the throbbing in his head compounded tenfold by the simple act of speaking. “Just let me die, right here. Bury me with my Balenciaga jacket. You know, the one I spent eight months saving up for.”

“Speaking of funerals,” Minghao says, straightening, features set with an insouciant disdain. “What are we doing about one Jeon Wonwoo?”

The name ripples down Mingyu’s vertebrae ice-cold, permafrost freezing over in his veins. He stays hunched in on himself, unmoving, his mind slowly tearing open a cavernous rift between rage and betrayal and violent defeat. And beneath that — the numbing warcry of a much more urgent, immediate hurt.

“Fuck Jeon Wonwoo,” Seokmin slurs belligerently.

“Agreed, but what are you going to _do_ , Gyu?” 

Mingyu lifts his eyes from where they’ve drifted, unfocused, to somewhere in the distance. With more effort than strictly necessary, he draws his eyes level with Minghao’s. What he finds there makes something small and pathetic flinch, hard, in his chest. 

“Can we — _just_. Not... talk about him. Not today.” Mingyu’s face stills, then twists, crumbling it on itself. “Please.”

Minghao’s expression darkens visibly, his eyes going quietly dangerous, smoothing over like grey sky before a thunderstorm. 

“Fine. But the next time I see him, I’m putting an end to this.” Minghao says, casually, with an air of fabricated indifference. He lifts a hand, turning it at an angle to examine his (delicate and flawlessly manicured) nails.

“And they won’t be able to find the body.”

“Minghao,” Seokmin sighs, “What have we said about making casual threats of murder over breakfast?”

Minghao folds his hands across his chest in one smooth, fluid motion of defiance. “Technically, it’s two o’clock in the afternoon, and I’ll threaten whoever I want. _Especially_ when they’re heartless bastards who fuck with my friends’ feelings and probably spend their free time kicking puppies.”

“He doesn’t _kick puppies_.” Mingyu says, strangled.

“Yes, he does,” Minghao insists. “Just _look at you_. You can be annoying as hell and stunningly oblivious most of the time, Kim Mingyu, but anyone that would look at your big, sad puppy eyes and still be emotionally stunted enough to hurt you is either a complete sociopath, or Wonwoo.”

“You do look like a kicked puppy when you’re sad.” Seokmin agrees, unhelpfully. “It’s, like, really hard staying mad at you unless I avoid making direct eye contact.”

“I’m tired of watching him go hot and cold with you at the drop of a hat. He doesn’t give a fuck that he’s leading you on, letting you think there’s still a chance you two can be friends.” Minghao’s eyes narrows, jaw tightening. “Friends don’t make their friends cry on their own birthday.”

Mingyu stills, eyes lowering to the table and staying there, burning against his resolve to not react.

“He’s right.” Seokmin says, voice gentle, but firm in a way that’s so very Seokmin. Silly and light-hearted except in the moments when you need him most and realise that under that heart of gold, he’s got a spine of steel. “You know he is, Gyu. You care about him, and that’s okay, I know you do. But you’re the one that’s hurting because you can’t _make him_ want to fix this. It takes two people to rebuild a friendship, and _where is he_? Where was he last night?”

 _You don’t know him like I do_ , Mingyu thinks, that fiercely stubborn and blindingly loyal part of him raising its hackles against the character assassination of someone who would likely never defend him back. You don’t –– _know him_. He’s uncompromising, and strong-willed, but he’s not unreasonable. He feels more, _cares more_ , then he ever lets on, to anybody.

Mingyu thinks about the night he told Wonwoo about his birthday, Wonwoo’s calm, amused reassurance that he knew. He thinks about the million and one excuses he could make for why Wonwoo _didn’t come_ , and how Wonwoo has never explicitly mentioned wanting to be friends again. How Wonwoo has never looked at him, or smiled at him, or been the same around him ever since before. Even with Mingyu’s undying determination to see this through to the end, three years is a long time to hold out hope.

And maybe, _maybe_ , he knows in his bones and the white flag that may as well be planted in his ribs that he just wants them to be wrong.

“Fuck,” Mingyu swears softly, dragging a hand across his face and through his dishevelled hair. “Maybe I do want you to kill him.”

“Just say the word.” Minghao says solemnly. “Anytime, anywhere.”

“I love you both but there are _CCTV cameras_ in this café and plotting voluntary manslaughter is incriminating and illegal and I am too pretty to wind up in a cell beside you.”

“Aw,” Minghao coos, batting his lashes. “You’d be willing to go to prison with us?” 

“No! I’ve seen enough documentaries to know how any well-intentioned blood oath ends up! Mingyu’s a giant and you’d shank anyone who came within five feet of you. _Me_ , on the other hand?” Seokmin makes a high-pitched squawking noise at the back of his throat and runs the point of his thumb across his neck like a guillotine.

“Don’t worry, Seokminie.” Minghao smiles, reaching over to pat at Seokmin’s cheek. “We’d Shawshank your thick thighs out of there.”

Mingyu giggles, muffling his laughter with his hand, inimitably thankful for them.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Serendipity, or some other cruel stroke of misfortune, grants Minghao’s wish for blood sooner than any of them could have anticipated when they run into Wonwoo as he’s leaving his and Mingyu’s room. The image of himself making the terrible journey home a drunken, crying mess suddenly comes to mind, and Mingyu’s extraordinarily glad all over again he had the foresight to pass out on Seokmin’s couch instead. 

Wonwoo has the audacity to look stunned when he sees him, eyes widening behind the thicker frames of his back-up glasses – the ones that make his eyes seem big and dark and not at _all_ endearing in the evening light of a desk lamp – his entire frame stiffening on sight.

Mingyu’s mouth goes dry, his body’s knee-jerk reaction of fear, exhilaration, and uninhibited dread ricocheting through him like whiplash.

Seokmin twitches, mouth opening as if on cue, his inability to let the potential for conversation lapse into utter silence overcoming the tense atmosphere. “Um. Hi, Wonwoo. Hello. Good day. – Isn’t it such a great day? Weather sure is great outside right now. We were just  ” 

“Seokmin.” Minghao snaps under his breath. _Let’s see what he has to say for himself_ , the challenging tilt of his chin in Wonwoo’s direction seems to say.

Wonwoo stands there for a moment, staring at Mingyu, stricken with quiet desolation. It’s very convincing, Mingyu’ll give him that. 

“Mingyu. About yesterday  I know I said  ”

“Jeon Wonwoo.” The placid curve of Minghao’s smile stops short at his lips, flat and colourless, the look of a cobra in his eyes coiling into position before it strikes. Minghao advances, taking a half-step towards Wonwoo. “You’ve made yourself very clear where you stand as far as Mingyu is concerned.”

“So, let me clarify some things for _you_. You might be a cold-hearted, emotionless jackass but _Mingyu_ , for some reason, cares a whole lot about you. He’s been bending over backwards trying to keep you happy on the off-chance you might still want to salvage what’s left of your friendship.”

“Whatever bad blood there is between you, he doesn’t deserve to be treated like nothing by someone who doesn’t give a shit.”

The unembellished truth in Minghao’s cold, stark voice makes Mingyu stiffen, a flinch suppressed in the wrecked look on his face.

Wonwoo opens his mouth, eyes flickering from Minghao and then to Mingyu, and shuts it again, his face smoothig into a blank, inscrutable nothingness. He straightens, readjusting his grip on his backpack and walks right past them, not a single word or a glance at Mingyu spared as he goes.

Mingyu is seventeen, nineteen, twenty-one and watching Wonwoo slip forever through his fingertips. This is how the story unfolds, each part played as it’s been scripted: Wonwoo leaves, and Mingyu, aching and defenceless, any instinct for self-preservation razed to the ground, never quite enough to make him stay.

It’s the same old wounds opening up in all the familiar places, some still raw, and bare, left to heal unfinished in layers of battered scar tissue.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Wonwoo has the art of avoidance down to a science — no, an _art_. Mingyu doesn’t see him for the next five days. He catches glimpses of the back of his head leaving out the door when he’s rubbing sleep from his eyes, hazy and still half-asleep, but other than that, Wonwoo seems to have enough of a working knowledge of Mingyu’s daily routine to disappear the moment Mingyu is around.

Which is completely, and absolutely fine with Mingyu. The entente is straightforward and uncomplicated; a cessation of hostilities, communication, _any contact whatsoever_. For all intents and purposes, Wonwoo has removed himself from Mingyu’s life, saving him the trouble of feeling affronted or inconvenienced by having to co-exist with someone who hates him so much he’d rather orchestrate his days around evading Mingyu than apologise. 

Wonwoo’s consideration even extends to his living habits. The former sprawling mess of books, papers, and dirty laundry is gone, replaced by an immaculate tidiness Mingyu always suspected Wonwoo was capable of but deliberately ignored because he knew it would drive Mingyu insane.

Word spreads fast about the unspoken accord struck between them. There’s a careful and negotiated absence of Wonwoo’s name in conversations, and Mingyu can only assume vice versa for Wonwoo. 

The general consensus is that 1. Wonwoo is firmly in the wrong (what kind of _dick_ just misses someone’s birthday party like that? Even someone that he seems to have some long and messy secret history with and a lifetime’s worth of unresolved issues?); 2. Whatever happened between them still remains firmly off-limits, strictly taboo in public discourse; 3. The lack of information about Wonwoo’s exact crimes against Mingyu means the most they can do is watch and wait from the silent distance of a cold shoulder.

As for Mingyu, they’ve rallied their efforts together into a weeklong campaign to cheer him up, to keep him busy and distracted. Because Mingyu’s friends love him, they’ve planned Operation: Make Mingyu Happy to the last detail. 

Tuesday night sees Seokmin whisking him off to a laser tag tournament, Mingyu and Seokmin vs. Seungkwan and Hansol. They play five rounds, three against each other and two against a team of twelve year olds and professional laser tag assassins. Seokmin nearly loses an eye when he’s knocked off his feet to a chorus of colourful, obscenely imaginative insults that only a bunch of junior high schooler’s who’ve just discovered cursing could come up with. Mingyu and Seungkwan get their revenge for him, tag-teaming and cornering a group of the little brats with a silent sniper attack from afar. In the dark, faces lit up by the blacklights and neon, they dissolve into laughter and overzealous trash talk as the eliminated teenagers storm off in defeat.

They win by a margin of two points against hundreds. Mingyu lets out a choked laugh of disbelief when he sees the scoreboard, and proceeds to charge around crowing in delight, sweeping the other three into suffocating, sweaty hugs. Exertion soaked through their shirts, and their hair slicked to their foreheads, they celebrate in all their winning glory with victory laps, dancing, and spontaneously bursting into song.

On Thursday, Minghao and Jun take him bowling. – To an outsider, a relatively unremarkable and ordinary thing to do, but to anyone that knows Kim Mingyu, a truly selfless act of genuine compassion. Minghao and Mingyu have been banned from actively competing in any bowling-related activities since July of last year after they were almost permanently blacklisted from the local bowling alley. Minghao’s on his best behaviour today, and Jun’s relaxed, lackadaisical approach to bowling right into the gutter tempers the aggressive streak in him.

Mingyu is off his game consistently through the night, his mind overcompensating for how much energy he’s putting into _not_ thinking about someone who’s name begins with Jeon and ends with Wonwoo. Minghao lets him win, and they all know it, but it’s close enough to call it a win, and this is how he knows Minghao, for all his protests and claims to the contrary, truly loves him.

When Minghao gets back from paying the loser’s bill for dinner, Mingyu swings his arm around his shoulders and leans over to plant a wet, sloppy kiss on his cheek. Minghao grunts in disgust, shoving him away and wiping at his face, smile twitching unbidden on his lips.

Friday night after their closing shift, Mingyu heads over to Joshua’s place for dinner and their semi-regular drama marathon. Mingyu cooks, leaving Joshua responsible for breaking out the wine and providing musical entertainment for the evening. He serenades Mingyu with his guitar, stopping only to top up their glasses and taste-test the food Mingyu feeds him.

They curl up on the couch, Mingyu’s long legs propped across Joshua’s lap, re-runs of _Strong Woman Do Bong Soon_ playing on the screen. As the night wears on, Mingyu ends up with his head in Joshua’s lap, struggling not to fall asleep as Joshua sifts his fingers softly through his hair. They don’t talk about Wonwoo, or the night of Mingyu’s birthday, or anything else that isn’t about how attractive Park Hyung-sik is, how perfect a couple Bongsoon and Minhyuk are, how much Mingyu would love to find and date a man like Ahn Minhyuk.

Joshua strokes his fingertips against the shorter ends of Mingyu’s hair, at the back of his neck, and lets Mingyu ramble about how perfect and handsome and charming Minhyuk is, and how he would never, _never_ abandon Bongsoon when she needed him most. Mingyu falls asleep on the couch, tucked in with his favourite fuzzy blanket from Joshua’s linen closet.

Seungcheol shows up in the morning with breakfast and plans to take Mingyu to the basketball court. Mingyu wolfs down two sandwiches and half of a pastry as Seungcheol fills them in on the latest drama at work, the television-worthy scandal of a sunbae from another department drinking a little _too_ much at one of the staff drinking parties and confessing to his older, _married_ superior. Jeonghan is, apparently, still in bed, catching up on all the lost sleep he’s sacrificed to stay on top of his lesson plans.

Seungcheol seems twitchy when Mingyu asks about the school, smiling a little too wide when he mentions how much Jeonghan _loves_ being a primary school teacher. Mingyu and Joshua trade conspiratorial smirks, but don’t press the issue, both well-aware the truth of the matter will come out sooner than later.

Seungcheol, in his high school and even university days, had been a legend in the sporting community. Charismatic, driven, and passionately ambitious, he’d made the perfect football captain for the school team, taking them through to the final championships and making it look effortless. After graduating, he and Mingyu had kept in touch, meeting regularly when they could find time between Mingyu’s entrance exams and Seungcheol’s workload and university commitments. Seungcheol is one of the only people who knows the whole story about Before, who was there from the beginning of the end, and he’s never spoken a word of it to anyone. 

When they hit the court, Mingyu doing static stretches on the perimeter, Seungcheol gives him a long, serious look before breaking out into a smirk.

“Don’t think I’m going easy on you just because you’ve been having a rough week, kid.”

Mingyu laughs, glancing up from the ground where he’s stretching his hamstrings. “Dream on, old man. If anyone should be going easy on someone, it’s gonna be me. You’re the one stuck behind a big, fancy desk now, I bet the most exercise you get all day is punching a stapler.” 

“All talk and no action,” Seungcheol tuts, spinning the basketball on his pointer finger. He lets it drop, bouncing once, then twice before snatching it out of the air like it’s weightless. “We’ll see where that big mouth gets you, Kim Mingyu.” 

“I’ll save my apologies for absolutely _destroying_ you for later then, hyung.”

They play like old teammates, too familiar with each other’s strengths and weaknesses to let slip any true advantage. They’re too evenly matched – Seungcheol’s speed and agility levelling the playing field against Mingyu’s sheer height and power. Even in friendly games, Seungcheol always played to win. Mingyu doesn’t mind the challenge; he suspects Seungcheol hasn’t had many chances, if at all, to play ball and relax like this since he entered the workforce as an official, full-time adult.

Seungcheol cheers and whoops when Mingyu scores from the three-point line, charging over to tackle him around his waist with a victory cry.

At the end of the game, they’re 72-75, Seungcheol acting the gracious, humble winner by a mere three points. He treats Mingyu to a meal nonetheless, grinning as Mingyu jumps gleefully and runs off to get showered and dressed. Jeonghan meets them at the restaurant, smiling at Mingyu before shooting Seungcheol a tense, muted look. 

“Seungcheol-hyung. Jeonghan-hyung.” Mingyu sighs, ten minutes into the meal when neither of them have touched their food. “What’s going on with you two?” 

“Nothing for you to worry about Mingyu.” Jeonghan says, sipping serenely at his drink. 

“Well, I’m worried. Did you guys fight? How am I supposed to sit here acting like everything’s normal while you two are glaring at each other from across the table?”

“We hardly ever get time to see you anymore, and it’s not worth ruining the mood so don’t worry about us.”

“Jeonghan’s right, Mingyu, eat your food.” 

“Oh, so _now_ you can admit I’m right?” Jeonghan demures.

Mingyu makes a frustrated noise, glancing back and forth between the two of them feeling very much like a child in the middle of an argument between his parents.

“I never said you weren’t,” Seungcheol says in disbelief. “I don’t even know what exactly it is that we’re fighting about!”

“Unbelievable,” Jeonghan mutters. “You really don’t know what I’m mad about?” 

“No, you stormed off and went to bed before I could even get an explanation out of you!”

“So now it’s _my_ fault because I wasn’t in the mood to fight with you after a long day at work. I deal with children all day, Choi Seungcheol. _Forgive me_ if I don’t want to come home to one.”

Seungcheol lets out an exasperated sigh, throwing his hands up in the air and turning to give Mingyu a desperate look. Mingyu stares back and shrugs, taking a bite out of his cheeseburger.

“All I said was that I was happy to have you home. What the hell is there to get mad about?”

“‘ _All you said’_.” Jeonghan echoes, his tone dripping venom. “You also said, and I _quote_ , “Thank god we don’t have any of our own, can you imagine?””

“Because I thought that was a good thing! You were complaining about how exhausting it was dealing with kids all day and how much catch-up you still had to do for your classes.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to hear how _grateful_ you are that we don’t have any children of our own, that you don’t have any present or future plans to  ”

“Wait, what? Jeonghan  ”

Jeonghan’s eyes lower as he deflates, curling in on himself. “I have enough insecurities about being a teacher without hearing about what a terrible parent I’d make.”

Seungcheol’s mouth hangs open, bewilderment and remorse flickering fast across his face before it smooths into iron-willed determination.  

“ _Jeonghan._ That’s not what I meant. At all. _Of course_ I think you’d make an amazing father. Hopefully not for the next few years, but one day, sure.” Seungcheol eyes are wide and bright as he reaches for Jeonghan’s hand across the table, fingers lacing through Jeonghan’s. “I just meant that I was glad that you could come home and unwind at the end of the day, that I’m lucky to have you all to myself.” 

Jeonghan’s lips twitch, smile unfolding hesitantly. “Really? You think… you think I’d be a good dad?”

“Really, _really_. And are you kidding? I’ve seen the way your students look at you, the way they talk about you. They _love_ you. And I do, too.” Seungcheol’s smile melts on his face, warm and sure as the midday sun. Mingyu glances away, suddenly acutely conscious that this is a private, intimate moment not meant to be witnessed by anyone else but them.

“I’m sorry,” Jeonghan says in a small voice, subdued and embarrassed. “I  blew things out of proportion. I was just… drained and exhausted and… running on like, five hours of sleep.”

“I know, sweetheart. It’s alright, I know.” Seungcheol tightens his grip on Jeonghan’s fingers before releasing them, looking like he wants to hold on, and more, but can’t in such a public location.

In the past week of Wonwoo’s self-imposed exile, Mingyu’s found his mind wandering along its inevitable tracks, taking the same well-worn path home, to Wonwoo, and the question of whether Wonwoo thinks about him at all. The selfish, juvenile part of him hopes Wonwoo is suffering, wants him to be tormented by guilt and remorse; the rational part of him knows Wonwoo isn’t the type to live with those kinds of regrets. 

He wonders if things would be different, if he was. If Mingyu had chased him down and apologised and refused to take no for an answer until he’d made everything alright, the first time around.

He wonders if they might have learned to apologise so easily, to forgive each other so softly.

“Well, I’m glad you guys worked that out,” Mingyu drawls, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “For the record, you’d make _terrible_ parents, arguing in front of the kids like this.”

“Yah! Don’t talk about the future father of my children like that!” Seungcheol smacks him against the back of his head and Mingyu winces, ducking away from his hand with a yell.

Jeonghan chuckles, eyes crinkling happily at the display of protectiveness.

“This is _child abuse_.” Mingyu whines. He pouts, glancing at Jeonghan pitifully. “ _Eomma_ , tell him _._ ”

“Seungcheol-ah,” Jeonghan says, smiling demurely over the rim of his mug. “Leave our son alone.” 

Seungcheol and Jeonghan drop him off back at campus, promising to make plans next week to eat together again. Mingyu takes the long way home, winding around buildings he’s never stepped foot into just to prolong the journey, hands shoved nervously into his pockets. At the door to their room, he stops, teeth sinking into his lip as he hesitates. He knocks, once, then twice. 

There’s no answer. And no one at all in the room when Mingyu unlocks the door. He doesn’t know if the sinking feeling in his stomach is disappointment, or bitter relief.

Either way, not having to suffer the awkward silence of being home at the same time as Wonwoo is an unequivocal blessing. Mingyu relishes in the freedom, kicking off his shoes and pants and turning his music on to full volume. Mid-way through tugging off his jeans, he loses his balance, his left foot staggering forwards to steady him and knocking into the trash can beside Wonwoo’s desk. It tips over, contents sprawling onto the ground in a mess of paper, food wrappers, and other miscellaneous garbage. Mingyu bites out a curse, crouching quickly to clean up the spilled trash.

It’s entirely possible Wonwoo hasn’t used this thing in weeks, and therefore hasn’t _emptied_ it in weeks because Mingyu finds bunched of pieces of paper with dates going as far back as nearly a month ago. He’s nearly finished shoving everything back into place when he comes across an envelope, ripped right down the middle. He finds the other half buried beneath an empty instant ramyeon packet, and tentatively pieces them together to form a complete whole. Inside the envelope, there are two tickets torn into four jagged halves.

 

 _SEOUL OBSERVATORY_  
_JANG YEONGSIL PLANETARIUM  
__ADULT_ _₩10,000_  

 

Mingyu can’t explain what compels him to do it – how does he explain the burning certainty that this _means something_ to anyone else but himself? – but he slips the tickets into the ruined envelope and tucks it away into a notebook on his own desk.

Wonwoo won’t miss them, and after Mingyu’s shoved every last scrap of trash back into the trash can, he’ll never have reason to find out.

 

 

\-----

 

 

After his last class of the day is over, Mingyu and a few of his classmates linger in the hallway to commiserate over upcoming assessments and arrange emergency study dates at the library. He’s saying his goodbyes to Woojin and Mina, wishing them godspeed and good luck with the essay they have due in under forty-eight hours when Kwon Soonyoung steps into his line of sight. 

“Kim Mingyu.” From at least halfway down the corridor, his voice cuts through the chatter of the students leaving Mingyu’s second year art history lecture.

As X University’s star performer and beloved dance prodigy, Soonyoung’s always had a flare for dramatics. Most people struggle to believe that Kwon Soonyoung, vibrant and extravagant performing arts ingenue and theatre darling, and Jeon Wonwoo, aloof and intimidatingly reserved literature major, are best friends. But like Mingyu and Seokmin, and Mingyu and Wonwoo before everything fell apart, theirs is a friendship built on years of history and lifelong loyalty. Without Soonyoung, Wonwoo would likely be wasting away somewhere in a dusty room existing only on books and games with no desire to eat or socialise whatsoever.

Soonyoung sweeps down the length of the hallway, stopping short right before Mingyu, seemingly towering over him despite his smaller stature, the inkstone black of his eyes angled like sharp calligraphy strokes. 

“ _We need to talk._ ”

Mingyu’s brow furrows, wary but morbidly curious in spite of himself as to what, exactly, Soonyoung wants. He’s not the person that should be saying those four words, but if he’s here as Wonwoo’s proxy, maybe that’s a start.

“I’ll message you guys on Kakao about study times. In the meantime, let’s just focus on getting this done! I believe in us.” Mingyu waves to his friends as he turns to leave, varying degrees of bemusement and perplexity on their faces as they call out their goodbyies.

“Are you stalking me, Kwon Soonyoung-ssi?” Mingyu asks, as he falls into step with him, tone carefully neutral and politely nonchalant.

Soonyoung scoffs delicately. “As if I, a graduating dance major, would have time for _that_. You think in between practicing for my year-end showcase, preparing auditions for every major dance company in the city, and teaching classes at the studio I’ve got time to keep up with the mundane details of your daily existence, Kim Mingyu?”

Mingyu hides his flustering with the turn of his head, eyes fixed firmly on the ground in front of him.

“Well, if you _were_ to make such a ridiculous assumption, you’d be right,” Soonyoung says breezily, his face shifting into a feline smirk as Mingyu gapes at him.

“For someone who’s six foot seven, you’re a surprisingly hard man to track down.”

“I’m only six foot _one_ , hyung.”

“Same difference when you’re tall enough to need your own postcode just to find you.”

“That’s what SNS is for, Soonyoung.”

“Call me old-fashioned then, because I know this conversation would’ve ended at hello if you’d seen the notification for my name pop up.”

Mingyu sighs, holding open the door of the building they’re leaving for Soonyoung because he was raised to be unfailingly well-mannered to anyone and everyone, regardless of their ill intentions.

“Okay. Fine. You’re right. So, what is this about then?” _Who_ , he means, knowing they’re both perfectly aware who the only person that fits this pointedly specific criteria could be.

“I appreciate you acknowledging that,” is what Soonyoung says instead of answering. “I’m hungry, are you hungry? Or thirsty? You must be after a two-hour lecture. And one about art history at that. Especially on a Tuesday morning. Let hyung treat you to some lunch.” 

“Soonyoung-hyung.” Mingyu fixes him with a stare. “If this is about Wonwoo, you’re wasting your time.”

“I’m here to change your mind about that.” Soonyoung says without missing a beat.

“I’m not talking about me, I’m talking about him.” Mingyu shakes his head. “Whatever you’re trying to do here, I know he knows nothing about it. And even if he did, he wouldn’t be interested.”

“How would you know? The last time you two spoke a single word to each other was two weeks ago.” Mingyu ignores the startingly specificity of that detail, anger flaring hot in his throat

“And whose fault is that!” Mingyu snaps, gritting his teeth at the urge to scowl. It’s not Soonyoung he’s really mad at. “He can’t even look at me, let alone lower himself to talk to me, as if I could possibly be worthy of his time.”

“That’s not true. You’re mad at him, and I get that. I understand why.” _But_ , Mingyu prompts with a sour note. Shockingly, there isn’t one. “He can be a gigantic fucking pain in the ass sometimes.”

Mingyu barks out a stunned laugh, caught off-guard by Soonyoung’s barefaced candidness.

“He can be a cold-hearted jerk sometimes. He’s emotionally stunted and even on a good day, about as expressive as a plastic spoon. He’s insensitive, and too blunt, and despite all of his intelligence, he can be terrible at reading the room sometimes. At reading people. He hides in himself when he’s sad, or angry, or hurting. He’d rather isolate himself, and suffer through something painful alone, because he thinks he deserves it, than tell someone he’s not okay.” It’s every complaint Mingyu’s ever made against Wonwoo, and if they were to compare notes of their grievances, Mingyu’s sure they’d be able to come up with a complete, alphabetised list. The truth is, neither of them love him any less for it. Sooyoung has known Wonwoo almost as long as Mingyu has, he’s his ride or die, for better or for worse, probably more so now than Mingyu ever was to begin with.

Soonyoung’s expression softens, his hand brushing Mingyu’s elbow to stop him mid-step. 

“You know him, Mingyu, I know you still do. He’s stubborn and stupid and infuriatingly closed off when it comes to expressing his emotions but that has never meant he doesn’t care. 

“Talk to him. That’s all I’m asking. You have every reason not to but he needs this.”

“He’s made it extremely clear he doesn’t.” Mingyu says, means _he doesn’t need me._ His chest aches along the hairline fractures of having to spell something out that’s as obvious to anyone as day or night. _He doesn’t need me._  

“Have you seen him at all since the last time you actually spoke?” Soonyoung demands.

“No, I haven’t.” Mingyu presses his lips together. “Apparently his allergic reaction to breathing the same air as me for longer than five seconds is back with a vengeance.”

At the very least, Soonyoung has the decency to look sympathetic. He bites at the edge of his lip, as if carefully weighing the outcome of what he’s about to say. 

“He hasn’t been sleeping well. Or eating well. If at all. I’m worried about him.” 

Mingyu’s heart trips over a beat, sprawling headfirst before stuttering back to baseline. He can feel his eyes burning, hot and sharp and with a stinging suddenness. His lips part, a slow, controlled breath sucked in through his nose before he opens his mouth again. 

“Are you fucking serious right now? What the fuck is this? Am I supposed to — is that supposed to be my fault?” 

Soonyoung’s face falls, plummets really, like a tightrope walker without a safety net. 

“Fuck —” Soonyoung curses under his breath. “Mingyu, I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant —“ He reaches for Mingyu’s shoulder in some form of unwanted comfort or reassurance. Mingyu bats his hand away, taking a step back to distance himself from him. 

“You meant it the same way you meant to guilt-trip me into feeling like shit for being the reason he’s not sleeping or eating.”  

“And the reason I haven’t even noticed is because he wants nothing to do with me. Because I am the last person in the universe Jeon Wonwoo wants to talk to about being forced to co-exist with someone he hates.”

“He does not hate you, Kim Mingyu.” Soonyoung says slowly, but far too quickly and with too much certainty for Mingyu to trust.

“He hates me so much he’s not sleeping or fucking eating anything, you said it yourself!” Mingyu cries, exasperation bleeding into distress, into this asphyxiating feeling winding through his ribs and hardening like deadweight in his chest.

“He’s angry with himself, for hurting you.” It’s the same, circular argument – Wonwoo cares, but not enough to fix things. Not enough to keep himself from hurting Mingyu.

“Then why is it you who’s telling me this and not him, huh?”

And to that, Soonyoung has no reply.

Mingyu’s face cracks, brittle and strained, a deadened hollowness to his gaze, smile painting a slash of crooked humourlessness across his lips. “He might not hate me but he hasn’t forgiven me for what I did. And I don’t blame him. I’m the reason why nothing’s the same anymore, I’m the reason why we can’t go back. It’s my fault.”

The admission dredges up a raw, wild anguish from the depths of Mingyu he buries beneath lightness, and laughter, and a three-year performance in the making of rage and despise for his so-called arch-nemesis. These childish games and petty acts of vengeance — all part of the counterfeit act — so painfully transparent to everyone but Wonwoo. The blame has always been his, the _mistake_ has always been his to bear. He’s never needed Wonwoo to destroy him, he does it all the time, over and over, thinking about what his life would look like if he’d never done what he did. 

“I could give him my heart on a fucking platter,” Mingyu says, hating himself for the hitch in his voice, the way it sounds like heartbreak. “And he’d still want nothing to do with me.” 

“So, please, Soonyoung. Just — _leave it_.”

The shattered look on Mingyu’s face, his outburst, the pleading gutting his voice seems to come crashing down on Soonyoung all at once. “Mingyu, I’m sorry. I — I overstepped. I crossed a line, and I’m _sorry_. I shouldn’t have — ”

“It’s fine. I know you’re just — looking out for him.” Mingyu’s voice is mumbled and thick, his throat feeling tight and choked, and all he wants is to _get the fuck out of here_ before he starts crying in front of Wonwoo’s best friend. “You just want him to be happy, and I — I want that, too.”

Mingyu takes a step backwards, his heart feeling like it’s been cut into fine ribbons, the knife work so clean the damage is entirely bloodless.

“I’ll make sure he eats. And that he gets enough sleep.”

Mingyu sucks in a breath and makes as if to leave – to run, far and fast – when Soonyoung calls out one last time. 

“Mingyu.” Soonyoung’s face twists, apologetic but unwavering. Resolute. “He didn’t forget. I swear he didn’t. The night of your birthday  he kept talking about the stars. About Polaris.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

The sun rises in a glory of endlessly blue sky and near summer heat. It’s early yet, to be hitting the beach, but with assessments looming and so many of them working full-time, the thirteen of them have decided to take their chances while they still can.

Mingyu, Seokmin and Chan pile into Seungcheol’s car with Joshua in the front seat. The rest are divided up between Jeonghan and Jihoon’s cars. Seokmin, who’d lost their game of paper-scissors-rock is forced to sit in the middle, but doesn’t begrudge Mingyu one of his earbuds when he asks, letting him rest his head against his shoulder to take a nap. The two and a half hour drive up to Naksan beach had required a bright and early wakeup call at 7:00AM sharp. 

The next thing Mingyu knows, Seokmin is shaking him awake, pointing out the window with a shout at the glittering sand and sea stretching out farther than the horizon of the sky.

“Last one to the beach has to carry everything from the car!” Seungcheol crows, leaping out of his seat, keys jangling in his hand as he takes off in the direction of the shore. Seokmin and Jisoo give chase, tearing after him shouting.

Mingyu, still dazed and half-asleep, stumbles after them and ends up losing gracefully. He turns back to begin unloading their things from the car, almost stumbling over himself when he sees Wonwoo getting out of Jihoon’s car that’s just pulled up beside Seungcheol’s SUV. Wonwoo looks pale, face slightly drawn but no more worse for wear than he usually appears during an exam week. Wonwoo yawns, oblivious to Mingyu’s attention, running a hand through his scruffy hair. There’s a slight tinge to the skin beneath his eyes, but as he smiles, saying something to Soonyoung behind him, his face shifts into a carefree easiness that Mingyu hasn’t seen in weeks. 

He hasn’t seen Wonwoo in weeks, _period_. The thought jolts him out of his reverie, sobering and stark.

He waves at Jihoon and Minghao, striding over to begin helping them unpack everything from the boot of their car, too. Mingyu and Hansol turn the chore into a game, balancing as much as they can in their arms before staggering off in the direction of the sand. A few bags get dropped here and there, but everything remains whole and intact, which Mingyu counts as a personal victory.

Armed and fully slathered with sunblock, half of them head straight for the water. Mid-spring, the weather hasn’t reached the peaks of June or July heat yet, and it’s the ideal temperature to mess around in the water and play jokgu for hours on the sand without worrying about the sun. At noon, they split into teams – the ones who can’t cook responsible for setting out the picnic spread on the beach and laying out all the pre-prepared food; the ones who _can_ cook are tasked with handling the barbecue.

Mingyu and Seokmin take the lead, watching over the sizzling skewers of meat and spiced vegetables with the air and command of seasoned professionals. With everyone’s combined efforts, they cook and set up a veritable feast – roasted beef, lamb, pork and seafood skewers, pork belly and ribs, spicy naengmyeon topped with cucumber and egg, and an array of fresh banchan.

As Mingyu eats, and talks, and laughs along to the stories and jokes traded amongst them, the warmth of the sun and the cloudless sky and being surrounded by his favourite people in the world settles across his skin, soaking into him and making him feel full even without the delicious food.

Jun, Hansol, Wonwoo, Soonyoung and Minghao take off in the direction of the shops along the beachfront in search of touristy things to do, leaving the rest of them to laze around on the sand.

Mingyu stretches out on a towel beside Jeonghan and Seungkwan, the sounds of conversation slowly drifting into the distance as his eyes slip shut, the heat lulling him to sleep.

 

 

\-----

 

 

 _The waves lap and retreat along the shore, the white spray and sea foam glistening like jewels scattered amongst the cerulean blue of the water._ _It’s calming and soothingly mesmerising, and right now Mingyu wants nothing more than to be there instead of here, stuck on the sand._

“ _Hyung_ , we’re at the beach.” Mingyu grouses, flopping onto his back. “The sun is shining, the water’s perfect. Did you really come all this way just to sit on the sand and read?”

“It’s what the beach umbrella is for.” Wonwoo replies without looking up from his book.

“Oh my god, I never should’ve agreed to lug that thing from the car. It’s heavy as hell and now all you’re gonna do is sit here on the sand being boring.”

“For a big strong boy like you?” Wonwoo flips the page. “I’m sure it was nothing.”

“So help me god I’m going to make you have a little fun during this break even if it kills me.”

“Who says I’m not having fun?” 

“Choosing some dusty old book over the sun and the sea on a bright summer day? What’s so good about this one anyway?”

“It’s an astronomical guide to celestial objects and phenomena.” 

“ _Ohh-kay_. And for the people who _don’t_ read encyclopaedias for fun?”

“The stars, Mingyu.” Wonwoo says, patient to a fault. “It’s a book about stars.”

“Oh,” Mingyu replies. “Why didn’t you say so? That’s kinda cool. More interesting than _King Lear_ or _The Annals of the Joseon Dynasty_ anyway.”

“Mm,” Wonwoo hums, turning to the next page. Mingyu sits up, propping himself up on an elbow so he can study Wonwoo. People tend to think Wonwoo of the Thousand Emotionless Faces has only one standard expression, but it’s not true. He has dozens of tiny, near invisible micro-expressions and tells that you can only see if you’re really paying attention. And Mingyu pays attention, he always does. It’s something he can’t help.

He traces the angle of Wonwoo’s eyes, the slight pinch in his brow from concentration, the _focus_ meaning Wonwoo’s reading something he finds interesting. The press of his lips means he’s processing new information, his mind making the connection between curiosity and understanding. 

“Mingyu.” Wonwoo says, the low drawl of his voice amused but distracted. “Stop staring at me.”

“But you’re _ignoring me_ for this astronomy book,” Mingyu whines. “I need attention, hyung, or I’ll _die_.”

“Why don’t you go find one of the others? I’m sure they’d be more than happy to help you out with that.”

Mingyu grunts, and doesn’t answer. They both know _why_ he doesn’t want to go, but he’d have to swallow his pride to admit out loud that he prefers Wonwoo’s company to anyone else’s.

“Teach me something then. From the book, something about the stars.”

Wonwoo actually looks up at this, eyebrow arching teasingly as he makes eye contact with Mingyu.

“ _You_ want to learn something? Voluntarily?”

“Shut up! I like learning, sometimes   _whatever_ _!_  You’re… good at explaining stuff, I guess. I don’t mind if it’s you.” 

“Alright then.” Wonwoo says simply, closing his book around his finger to mark his page. He shifts to face Mingyu, sitting cross-legged with the book resting against his lap. “In modern astronomy, the sky is divided into eighty-eight different regions, or constellations. Every star you see in the sky fits into one of these constellations. Have you ever heard of the North Star?”

Mingyu nods, sinking into his hands into the cradle of his palms as he stretches out on his stomach to listen.

“The North Star, or Polaris, is the current northernmost star in the night sky. They discovered it was a binary system with the Hubble telescope.” 

“A binary system?”

“It’s actually two stars in orbit: Polaris A, the yellow supergiant, and Polaris B, a smaller dwarf star. That’s why it looks so bright. Because of its position relative to the sky, all the other stars seem to spin around this one fixed point. If you can find the height of Polaris over the horizon, you can use it to orient yourself north. People have used it to throughout history to find their way home with the stars, with celestial navigation.” 

“Polaris,” Mingyu echoes, his face solemn and still with genuine curiosity. “Show me when the sky gets dark, I want to see.” 

“I will.” Wonwoo’s eyes crinkle as he smiles, and Mingyu yawns, stretching and rolling over so he’s slumped against Wonwoo, his chest pressed to Wonwoo’s side.

“Comfortable?” Wonwoo asks, quirking a brow at him. Mingyu makes a soft noise in the affirmative, small, innocent smile curving across his face. In a single lightning-fast movement, his hand shoots out to snatch the book from Wonwoo’s unsuspecting grip. 

“Hey! Kim Mingyu, what the hell?!” Mingyu lets out a triumphant giggle, leaping to his feet and turning abruptly on his heel. In the next second he’s charging off in the direction of the beach, laughter trailing behind him and Wonwoo’s book tucked under his arm. 

“Kim Mingyu, where do you think you’re going with my book! Get back here, you little bastard!” Wonwoo, with no choice but to run after him, gives chase. He’s fast, but Mingyu’s faster, his height and head-start pressing his advantage as he plunges into the water.

“Mingyu, I swear to god if you drop my book  ”

“Relax, hyung, I _won’t_. Besides, now that you’re here, isn’t the water amazing? I told you so, right?” Mingyu grins, jubilant and smug.

“It was just fine from afar, too,” Wonwoo snipes. “Now give me my damn book back.”

“Nope.” Mingyu says, elongating the word with a pop of his lips. “Don’t think I will.” Wonwoo lets out a grunt, lunging at Mingyu. Mingyu squawks, darting out of the way, too quick to be caught by such an obvious opening move.

“Well, you finally got me into the water. You happy now?” Wonwoo says, tone conversational and offhand even as he threatens him. Mingyu giggles, splashing him with a spray of water with his free hand.

“My plan worked, didn’t it? You’re here.” Mingyu beams, readjusting his grip around the book. For all his bravado, he doesn’t actually want to _drop_ Wonwoo’s book. “I’m happy.”

Wonwoo’s face seems to soften at that, smile unfurling at the corners of his lips before he feints left, swinging around to jab at Mingyu from the right. A violent splash erupts from the surface of the water as Mingyu kicks away, surging back deeper into the waves.

“Tell me, Kim Mingyu, do you want to _die_?”

“I won’t if you can’t catch me,” Mingyu taunts, sticking his tongue out childishly.

“Oh my god,” Wonwoo curses under his breath, head snapping back defeated. “You’re going to drop my book. I can feel it.” 

“I’m being careful, hyung.” Mingyu replies, a tinge of indignation to his voice, as if he has any right to complain. 

Wonwoo scowls, watching Mingyu with narrowed eyes across the few feet separating them. After a moment, he gives up, turning and starting to head for the shore. Mingyu lets out a despondent noise, crestfallen at the thought of Wonwoo’s genuine anger, splashing forwards hurriedly to curl his hand around Wonwoo’s shoulder.

Wonwoo’s hand shoots out to catch him by the wrist connected to the arm wrapped around the astronomy book, and he spins, water arcing around in a spray of movement as he catches Mingyu around the waist, seizing the book from his hands.

With his arms still locked around Mingyu’s waist, he shoves them both forwards until he’s close enough to the sand to toss his book onto safe ground.

“Hyung!” Mingyu splutters, struggling against Wonwoo’s vicelike grip. “ _Hyung_.” He laughs, squirming in Wonwoo’s arms as Wonwoo’s fingers dig into the soft, ticklish skin at his sides.

“This is what you wanted, right?” Wonwoo’s mouth is curling into a mischievous grin, grip tightening around Mingyu. “ _You know what they say_ , Mingyu-yah, be careful what you wish for.” With that, he sweeps Mingyu’s legs out from under him, sending him tumbling into the water.

Mingyu yelps, bursting into breathless laughter and pleas of mercy. He splashes out with an arm, sending water spraying everywhere. Wonwoo swings an arm around his chest, and with Mingyu’s twisting and wriggling to try and break his hold, both of them end up plummeting into the water, salt and sea spray soaking into their hair. 

Mingyu tackles Wonwoo into the shallow water, the sound of their laughter soaring and tumbling with them into the waves.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“ _Mingyu-yah._ ”

Mingyu groans, twitching away from the sound and the uncomfortable promise of longing stirring somewhere near his midsection. “Mingyu, wake up.” This time, it’s followed by a soft jostling of his shoulder.

He cracks his eyes open with a squint, nearly choking on his breath when he sees Wonwoo staring at down at him a few feet away on the beach.

“Wha — wha’s — ” Mingyu grunts, pressing an arm over his eyes. “Why’d you wake me up?”

“Jeonghan said to remind everyone to put more sunblock on.”

Mingyu groans, again, disgruntled by the abrupt wakeup call, but drags himself up to a seated position, squinting through the glare of sunlight reflecting off white sand.

“Here.” Mingyu blinks, turning mechanically to look at Wonwoo. Wonwoo’s holding out the bottle of sunblock at him. Mingyu takes it from him carefully, wary as if he’s uncertain what he’s going to find when he opens it.

Wonwoo has glasses perched on his nose, a book spread out on his lap. It’s all achingly familiar, déjà vu lurching in his throat like swallowed saltwater. His cheeks suddenly feel hot, awakening flooding him with a keen awareness of where sleep had taken him in his dreams. He wonders if Wonwoo can see it on his face, if Wonwoo himself still remembers any of it.

Mingyu doesn’t ask what he’s reading, doesn’t make any further attempt at conversation. He uncaps the sunblock and begins pouring the substance into his palm, slicking it over his skin and rubbing it into his arms, legs, neck. He puts extra on his face, rubbing with a deliberate attentiveness, determined not to acknowledge Wonwoo.

Mingyu closes the sunblock, tossing it lightly onto the sand beside him and laying back down, ready to close his eyes and drift back into a – hopefully dreamless – nap again. Wonwoo coughs, or clears his throat, or something, Mingyu can’t tell because he has his eyes closed and the sound is barely loud enough to register as anything other than incidental. 

Wonwoo coughs again, and this time Mingyu’s brow furrows. He ignores it, wriggling on his towel to get into a more comfortable position. A few seconds later, his phone chirps with a Kakao notification. Mingyu reaches blindly for his phone, cracking open his eyes only to squint at the screen.

  

 **wonwoo:** You have

 **wonwoo:** sunscreen on your nose.

 

Mingyu snorts. “What, you couldn’t say that out loud? Do you have a sore throat or something?”

Wonwoo doesn’t reply. Mingyu turns to give him a sharp look, and finds Wonwoo has curled his knees up to his chest, his book resting on the tops of his knees and his other arm wrapped around his legs. He has his eyes fixed adamantly on his book. It’s –– frustratingly _cute_ , and whatever biting retort he’d had ready on his tongue dies at the sight of him.

Mingyu lets out a grunt, swiping at his face before letting his hand fall back onto the sand, eyes closing again.

His phone chirps.

  

 **wonwoo:** it’s still there

 

A stunned laugh tumbles from his lips. _Is he being serious right now?_ Mingyu sits up onto his elbows, shooting Wonwoo an incredulous look.

“I’m not going to bite your head off if you try to say something to me.”

Wonwoo turns his page, gaze darting to Mingyu from the corner of his eye and then back again.

Mingyu brushes at his nose again, muffling his sigh under his hand and slumping back down, this time resolved to fall asleep. He’s dozing off when he feels a soft brush of something against his nose. He wrinkles his face, head twitching slightly. But it’s there, again, the graze of a finger against the bridge of his nose. 

His eyes fly open, and Wonwoo’s eyes are all he can see. Wonwoo’s face hovering above his, an arm holding him up and the other stilled just above Mingyu’s face. 

Mingyu heart acts first, jump-starting so fast he feels it slam against his chest, a startled shriek bursting from his lips as his body jerks in an attempt to get as far from Wonwoo as physically possible. In his panic, his hand flies out, striking Wonwoo somewhere on his face.

Several things happen in quick succession: Wonwoo hisses, lurching backwards onto his heels and nearly losing his balance, Mingyu cries out, skin scraping against sand, his leg kicking into the umbrella shading them overhead. The stand collapses with the force of Mingyu’s kick, falling on top of him in a tangle of technicolour polyester and long, tanned limbs.

Mingyu yells, struggling out from under the umbrella and scrambling to his feet. To his surprise, he finds Wonwoo hunched over, shoulders shaking with — _laughter_. The low breathiness of his voice rising in pitch the lower he dips, hands clapping delightedly. 

“Stop — stop laughing!” Mingyu growls, divided between the helpless grin fighting to spill across his face and the knowledge that he’s still meant to be angry with Wonwoo. “I’m meant to be — I _still am_ fucking mad at you.” 

That sobers Wonwoo up quickly enough, laughter dying on his lips and his face tightening again from the carefree joy of his laughter. Mingyu kinds of hates himself for it.

“Sorry,” Wonwoo says. “That was my fault.”

“It’s fine.” Mingyu grits out, straightening to shake the sand from his hair and off his clothes. Wonwoo moves to pick up the umbrella, brushing the sand from it and planting it back in the ground. Mingyu moves to lie back down on his towel, shifting deliberately to face the other way from Wonwoo, agonisingly aware of Wonwoo’s eyes searing a line of heat down his back. 

 

 

\-----

 

 

Sunset paints the horizon in shades of gilt fire, red streaking into yellow-gold and copper, tinged with ultraviolet blue. They’ve gathered on the sand, sprawling on the patchwork of blankets and towels, a knee brushing someone’s thigh, an arm slung around a shoulder, wrapped around an elbow.

There’s a small but growing pile of empty beer cans scattered around them. Mingyu surveys them with an itch in his fingers, and clambers to his feet to begin cleaning up for the drive home. He grabs an empty garbage bag, picking his way across the empty patches of sand, careful not to accidentally step on any stray fingers or toes as he’s typically prone to do.

Seungkwan is playing music from his portable speakers, laughing into Seokmin’s shoulder about a joke Mingyu doesn’t catch as he ducks behind them to collect their empty cans.

“Mingyu-yah,” Seokmin calls, catching his hand as Mingyu steps past him and tugging him back. “Why are you cleaning up? Come sit down, drink a little more. Have some fun with us.”

“Someone’s gotta do it, and I don’t mind.” Mingyu says gently, loosening his fingers from Seokmin’s grip and patting him fondly on the cheek before giving him an open-palmed shove. “Slow down before you pass out and we have to carry you up the beach, okay?”

“No guarantees,” Seokmin slurs, beaming cheerfully.

Mingyu weaves his way in and out of the group, responding to his friends’ playful teasing— “ _Aigoo_ , Housewing Ming, what are you working so hard for?” “When did you become such a well-behaved dongsaeng, huh?”— with good-natured chuckles. After circling around them once, and then again, he realises Wonwoo isn’t here. He spins in a loose arc, glimpsing a distant figure not far from them, closer to the water where the waves are still rushing back and forth to meet the shore.

The last rays of sunlight limning him in gold and blue, the sight of him makes nostalgia ache somewhere deep and forgotten in Mingyu.

He knots the garbage bag, slipping his shoes off and dangling them from his fingers as he pads across the sand. Wonwoo’s seated just at the edge of the waves, each receding farther and farther down the shore. His arms are curled around his knees, feet crossed at the ankles and one hand anchored around the wrist of the other. A breeze catches at the hem of his shirt, ruffling at the loose strands of hair framing his face, the strong sweeping line of his jaw. He doesn’t look up when Mingyu slides down to sit beside him.

For a moment, Mingyu lets the sound of the sea drown out the rush of his pulse in his ears, the distant roaring of waves indistinguishable from the thrumming of his pulse. He draws in a soft, steadying breath.

“You said you remembered.”   

Mingyu wraps his arms around his legs, an unconscious echo of Wonwoo. “When you said that you’d come, was that just you telling me what you thought I wanted to hear?”

Wonwoo lowers his head, gaze flickering to his hands. The sound of the ocean before them seems to swallow Mingyu’s sandpaper sigh, the vastness stretching endlessly before them comfortingly indifferent to Mingyu’s happiness, or pain. 

“I know. I did — and I’m sorry. I should’ve. I wanted to.” 

“Then why _didn’t_ you?” Mingyu curls tighter around himself, a boyish instinct to make himself seem smaller, less intimidating.  

Wonwoo watches the water lap at the shore, washing up inches from their bare feet only to be pulled back by the tide.

Mingyu aches, _everywhere_ , in places that can’t be touched by words or skin. He’s tired down to his bones, exhausted in a way that ages him beyond his twenty-one years of existence. This is — the definition and origin of madness, waiting and wanting something he knows he can’t have. He sinks in the helplessness of it, the feeling of it grown so intimate and routine to him that it’s an almost compulsive need. Like the tide, surging to kiss the shore and being dragged back each time by an inescapable gravitational force before it can, and persisting anyway.

“Mingyu.”

He hates the way Wonwoo can make his name sound like a revelation with the simple act of speaking it. Hates how his body tenses in anticipation, hanging onto the shape of his voice like his next breath depends on it. 

He doesn’t want to listen to whatever Wonwoo has to say, but he can’t bring himself to move or to leave.

“I can’t give you what you want.”

Mingyu stares straight ahead, eyes fixed on the horizon where the sky meets the sea, the blue of night bleeding into the black of the water.

“I can’t _be_ who you want me to be. I’m not that person anymore.”

He waits for the rage and fury and hunger for retribution to come, the juvenile longing he knows he has in him to make Wonwoo suffer, to inflict upon him the same misery and heartache Mingyu has to tread water to keep his head above every day. He feels hollowed out, the spaces inside him where wrath and resentment used to burn, used to keep him warm, _alive_ , extinguished. The war, the fighting, the endless circles Mingyu keeps going in to justify the cost of this — all of it feels so laughably meaningless now. 

 _Wonwoo has never wanted him back._  All this time, he’s been the only one who ever stood to lose something.

“Sometimes I forget how much being around you hurts.” Mingyu’s voice breaks, the taste of saltwater grating against the insides of his throat.

In the moonlight, Wonwoo’s face is divided in silver and shadow, and Mingyu’s chest clenches just to look at him.

The last piece of resistance in his heart gives, fractured by defeat. Here is his white flag, his surrender, everything he has left laid bare. There is no war left to fight, and any victory he once thought he’d find at the end of it has been worthless all along.

“And then you say things like this, or do things like stand me up on my birthday when you were the one person I wanted to see most, and I remember all over again why I wish I’d never met you.”

The sound of the waves crashing and surging to meet the shore bleeds, blurs into the rushing of blood in his ears. He hates that the sight of the beach will forever remind him of this. 

Mingyu climbs to his feet, willing himself not to fall apart, not here, not yet, and leaves Wonwoo on the sand without looking back.

 

 

\-----

 

In an act of wilful, calculated recklessness, Mingyu goes out on a weeknight with friends of friends who don't know him well enough to worry. He wears his tightest jeans, the ones that look like they're painted on, each seam meant to accentuate and draw attention. The tousled hair and collar open low on his throat, the arches of his collarbones bare, redolent with insinuation. 

He drinks like the world is ending tomorrow, a glass a permanent fixture in his hand, and lets anyone who offers buy the next round. At his height, it isn't hard to miss the looks he gets, the slight pauses to take him in, the full extent of his height. Mingyu picks the first attractive face he sees, making eye contact with the stranger with an easy, inviting smile.

The stranger is tall enough to have no trouble leaning in to whisper something charming and witty in Mingyu's ear. His eyes follow Mingyu as a smirk lifts at the corner of his mouth but stops there, so unlike Wonwoo and the crescent-shaped smile of his eyes. He's perfect. There's no seduction necessary. Mingyu sees the way his lips curve, the weight of his gaze as it rakes across Mingyu's frame. No one's looked at him with that kind of heat and hunger in a very, very long time. He'd almost forgtten how good it feels, to be wanted. 

He lets the stranger press close, their chests touching, and hands curving to slip into his back pockets. Mingyu sinks his fingers into his hair, coaxing open the man's mouth with his own, kissing him with the taste of liquor and the headiness of desire curling around their tongues.

They go home together, hands roaming across inches of heated skin, want making them careless,  _impatient_. Mingyu fumbles with the key to the door, distracted by the tongue grazing along his jawline, hissing under his breath as he feels teeth press hard enough to bruise. He finally gets the door open, his back crushing against the door as it slams shut, the man thrusting his thigh between Mingyu's legs, hard and heavy against him as he begins to suck a line of open-mouthed kisses down his throat.

Mingyu tugs his phone out his pocket, fingers slipping clumsily on the keyboard as he types out his message. It's the last rational thought he has before the night disappears in a haze of impulse and sex and long-awaited debauchery.

 

\-----

 

[1:27:08 AM] **mingyu:** dont come home tonight

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back at it again going ✈️even sadder city kids. 
> 
> thank you once again for all comments and kudos. you're all incredible and i appreciate every single one of you.
> 
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/bisexualgyu) / [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/gyuwu)


	4. when you move, fall like a thunderbolt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It hurts like nothing Mingyu’s ever felt in the world to think that becoming who they are now means leaving behind everything they used to be to each other. Mingyu used to imagine the rest of their lives at each other’s sides, used to picture them together, for the rest of time. 
> 
> The only thing worse than enduring another second in this room with Wonwoo is knowing he’s helpless to do anything but watch as everything falls farther and farther apart.

 

When Mingyu wakes with a start — if you can call dragging himself barely upright with a groan and watching the world sway and spin as time unravels nebulously around him as _awake_ — he has no idea what day or time it is.

He’s wearing nothing under the cover pulled haphazardly over his chest, the traces of someone’s unfamiliar cologne lingering on the sheets alongside the smell of his favourite laundry detergent.

There’s no one else in the bed, thankfully. For some inexplicable reason Mingyu finds his stomach knotting at the sight of the sheets shoved halfway down the bed, as if they’d left in a hurry. _Was the sex really that bad?_ Maybe he was off his game — a shameful thought, but it _has_ been a while. 

Mingyu slumps backwards into the mattress again with a defeated exhale. Maybe it’s because some part of him is still feeling vaguely pathetic, and needy after the events of last week and a certain someone Mingyu doesn’t want to think about right now, but it stings, just a little. 

He takes his time tugging on a pair of sweatpants and an old, threadbare t-shirt that barely fits him anymore, negotiating with the ache in the back of his head like an unwanted house guest. There’s a scrap of paper folded in half with his name on it at his desk, torn from a page of one of his notebooks. Brow furrowing, Mingyu crouches to inspect it.

  

_Hey,_

_Sorry I had to leave for morning practice. I didn’t want to wake you because you looked like you needed the sleep._

_Last night was pretty fun. If you ever want to hang out again, let me know._

_Jaehyun_

 

And scrawled underneath the name is a number. Mingyu stares incredulously for a moment, struggling to conjure a face to go with the characters signed at the bottom of the note. He remembers him being tall, hot and ridiculously good at kissing but that’s about as far as his memory gets him. Mingyu shoves the note into his back pocket out of sheer impulse, unspeakably glad he can languish in the comfort of his own room looking like a dishevelled mess free from judgement or socially acceptable norms.

Usually, Mingyu handles the Walk of Shame is like a champion. He’s been through his share of wild flings and promiscuous somethings in his first year. He’s always been very aware of the power and attention he commands with his height and his face. It’s just not something he’s ever particularly paid much thought to. 

He likes the thrill and flirtation of one night stands and no strings attached escapades. He delights in the freedom and fun that comes with owing no one anything. But it’s not what he wants anymore. 

He wants — _someone to wake up to in the morning_. Someone he can make breakfast for, to take care of, to text at any time of the day just because something funny reminded him of them. He wants someone whose smile makes his day, whose laugh makes him feel warm just knowing he made it happen.

He doesn’t want to think about why it’s so hard to imagine anyone being that person for him without feeling his heart plummet to the bottom of his chest.

 

 

\-----

 

 

 **minghao:** hey 

 **minghao:** what are you doing rn? wanna come over?

 **minghao:** i have wine and you bet it’s the cheap kind. we can make a night of it

 

 

 **minghao:** gyu ??

 **minghao:** hello? where tf are you??

 

 

\-----

 

 

It’s still a Sunday when he gets home and finally decides to check his phone. The room is empty and Mingyu slides into bed to sleep off his hangover, grateful and miserable and torn between wondering what Wonwoo’s doing and never wanting to see his face again.

He has two missed calls from Minghao and five from Seokmin. Dozens of unread texts from both of them, and a few others from Seungkwan and Joshua. He leaves them all on read, dismissing the notifications with a flick of his thumb. It’s a dick move. Minghao and Seokmin, and everyone else — they’re just worried about him, he knows that. But the thought of seeing them and having to explain, yet again, how he’s let Jeon Wonwoo ruin his entire week, makes him want to sink right into the ground. He can imagine already to the looks of muted pity and quiet resignation — the curiosity belying the comfort; _why Wonwoo? Why_ him _of all people?_   — and it makes him want him, or everything else in the world but preferably him, to momentarily cease to exist.  

He’s tired of the pity. He’s tired of himself, and how living in this state, half hell and half battlefield, makes his heart feel like a thousand-tonne weight. 

Mingyu turns up to his class on Monday morning, distracted and reticent even with the classmates who always save him a seat and greet him with a friendly smile. He skips his afternoon class, preparing himself to brave the dorm room and the sight of potentially seeing Wonwoo again and passing the night deadlocked in utter silence and awkward tension.

“ _Hey, Mingyu!_ ” 

He doesn’t hear the voice at first, earphones on and his mind trapped in a cycle of anxiety and frustration that circles constantly back to heartache.

“Mingyu!” It’s Jungkook, waving from a distance and already jogging over to him. Jungkook grins, eyes crinkling as he comes to a stop in front of him, bouncing on his heels slightly. Mingyu feels himself smiling in spite of himself, Jungkook’s earnest smile utterly infectious. 

“I tried texting you but you didn’t answer.” Mingyu’s expression turns apologetic, bashful now that he’s being confronted with it in person. He ducks his head with a rueful smile. 

“Ah, sorry. I’ve been kinda… distracted with stuff.”

“It’s all good. Some of the guys were thinking of going out after practice on Wednesday night and we wanted to know if you wanted to come.”

“Everyone’s going?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Bambam, Yugyeom, Woojin, Chris. — Y’know, the usual suspects. I think some of the guys on the basketball team will be there, too?” 

Mingyu bites his lip, thinks about how much work he still has yet to catch up for his classes, and then the terrifying image of working till the late hours of the morning with Wonwoo lurking in the shadows.  

“I’m in.” Jungkook lights up with a grin. 

“Awesome.” He turns, walking backwards as he takes his phone out to wave it at Mingyu. “I’ll text you the details so don’t leave me on read! And get some sleep before then, dude, no offence but you look like shit.” 

Mingyu chokes out a huff of laughter. “See you then.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

Wonwoo’s gone for the rest of the week, or he’s somehow memorised Mingyu’s schedule thoroughly enough to steer clear of the room any time he knows Mingyu is going to be around. Mingyu hasn’t seen him, or spoken to him, since that day on the beach.

He can feel his heart free-falling through zero gravity, his pulse spiking, just imagining himself having to face Wonwoo again. He used to think being at war with Wonwoo was a living hell, but this strained, fractured stalemate is far, _far_ worse. If things were awkward and tense before, even an empty dorm room absent of Wonwoo’s presence is downright unbearable. Mingyu finds himself lying awake, trapped in a cycle of cold dread and anxiousness, and above all, anger  **—** at Wonwoo, at _himself_ , this whole damn mess. 

There’s this terrible lostness of last-ditch resilience slipping away into nothing but a bitter aftertaste he can’t seem to shake. Because how is it fucking _fair_ that he has to mourn the loss of him over and over when Wonwoo has no problems carving him out of his life with clinical, surgical finality.

He knows he’s always been the more sentimental one out of them, but it hurts twice, ten times as much, to know how easily Wonwoo has cut him out of his entire being. You could dust Mingyu’s heart for fingerprints years from now and you’d still find Wonwoo, buried like artefacts inside of him, lost but never forgotten.

Mingyu can’t even call it what it is — he came close, so close it burned him and broke them and left them like this, raging and defeated — but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less like heartbreak. Wonwoo takes up so much of his life and his memories of being a kid, of growing up and growing into himself. It hurts like nothing Mingyu’s ever felt in the world to think that becoming who they are now means leaving behind everything they used to be to each other. Mingyu used to imagine the rest of their lives at each other’s sides, used to picture them together, for the rest of time.

The only thing worse than enduring another second in this room with Wonwoo is knowing he’s helpless to do anything but watch as everything falls farther and farther apart.

 

 

\-----

 

 

The post-practice adrenaline high is part-delirium and part-exhaustion, the rush of endorphins and exhilaration still pumping through their systems keeping them in high spirits despite coach’s insistence on driving them into the ground before he calls it a day.

They spill out of the locker rooms into the open air of the campus, sneaking sips from the six pack of beer someone had thought ahead to shove into their bag. By the time they reach the club, Mingyu’s in a genuinely good mood, the air of laughter and revelry making him forget everything else save for the excitement and alcohol tonight will bring.

Jungkook drags him immediately to the bar for drinks, ordering them a round of soju. It takes the second, and then the third round to give him a proper buzz. The sound level rises as the drinks start flowing, and the pleasant haze of the liquor beginning to settle in for Mingyu brings out the colour and noise that’s been absent from him for the past few days. 

“Hey, Jeon, remember that time I beat your ass at beer pong?” Mingyu calls out over the crowd, apropos of nothing save for the sheer joy and mischief of provoking Jungkook. 

“Oh, my god, _this again_? Are you serious?” Jungkook shoots back. “You knocked, like, four bottles right onto the ground and that was _before_ we even started playing.”

“ _Still won, though_.” Mingyu replies in a sing-song voice to match the smug grin plastered across his face. “And _still_ kicked your ass.”

“ _Shut up_ , I demand a fucking rematch.”

And that’s how the game starts. BamBam demands to join in not long after, and soon it’s a whole competition tangled up in a convoluted game of paper-scissors-rock, bottle cap flipping, and dance-offs. They’re a competitive bunch by nature, all of them falling into the social cross-section of jock/athlete as football players.  

It must be an hour, maybe two hours later, when BamBam lets out an ear-splitting whoop and begins waving wildly at the entrance of the club.  

“Yo! Ten! _Jaehyun!_ Over here!”

Mingyu’s too busy attempting not to spill his drink with gravity, his own clumsiness, and now BamBam’s surging suddenly to his feet working against him. The basketball players arrive to a round of raucous greetings, hugs and handshakes exchanged as Mingyu spots a few familiar, and not-so-familiar faces.

He makes eye contact with someone who breaks apart from the crowd to make his way over, and the first thing Mingyu notes is how he’s tall enough to look Mingyu right in the eye. 

“ _Mingyu,_ hi.” The man smiles at him in a way Mingyu suspects means he’s meant to remember him from somewhere.

“Uh, _hey_. Good to see you.” Mingyu’s lips quirk into a cursory smile as he tries to poorly conceal his confusion.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” The man lets out a laugh, eyes crinkling and his already _very_ , very attractive face becoming even more so with the appearance of matching dimples. “It’s alright. You were pretty out of it towards the end of the night.” It dawns on Mingyu with a spark of lightning-sharp dread who this has to be — the face, the knowing gleam in the man’s eyes, _those dimples_.

“I offered to take you back to your dorm but you, uh, were very insistent.”

Mingyu can feel his ears burning. This settles it. _The universe is officially conspiring against him_ and any hopes he might’ve had to live a normal life.

“Sorry. _Wow._ I must look like such an asshole.” Mingyu frowns, his shoulders curling slightly in an effort to unconsciously make himself seem smaller.

The guy just chuckles, shaking his head, and _wow_ , Mingyu really doesn’t deserve to have had a one night stand with someone like him. “Hey, it’s cool, we’ve all been there. It just means I can’t use my line about having a face that people remember.”

Mingyu blushes, this time all the way down to his neck.   

“It’s Jaehyun, by the way. Jung Jaehyun.”  

“I’m so sorry. Again. About not remembering your name.” Mingyu stutters, clumsy and tongue-tied and feeling like he’s back in middle school trying to stumble through his confession to the most popular girl in his grade. “I definitely, _definitely_ would’ve remembered a face like yours if I hadn’t been so drunk.” 

And then, because Kim Mingyu can’t help but put his foot in his mouth when he’s already halfway there already: “You — you have a _really nice face_.” 

BamBam, who’s appeared out of nowhere to swing an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders bursts out into laughter. “What he means —” he says, when he’s finally gathered himself enough to speak in between laughs, “Is that he thinks you’re _super hot_. And you two would make a super attractive couple.” 

“ _BamBam!_ ” Mingyu hisses under his breath, elbowing his way out from under BamBam’s arm. “Not helping. Totally not helping at all, but thank you _so_ much.”

“You’re welcome, my dude. _Happy fucking!_ ” And then with an extravagant flourish of his hand, he’s gone, a miniature hurricane vanishing back into the crowd.       

“Jesus, I’m so sorry about that.” Mingyu says, turning back to Jaehyun, embarrassment tingeing his small smile. 

Jaehyun merely chuckles, and his smile makes Mingyu forget all thoughts of disastrous walks of shame, and public humiliation. “For the record, I think you’ve got a pretty nice face, too.” 

“Thanks. I got your note by the way.” Mingyu tilts his head slightly, his confidence returning slowly as a comfortable flirtatiousness settles into the curve of his smile. “I can’t remember the last time someone wrote me a handwritten letter.” 

“I didn’t want you to think I was the kind of guy who just disappears the morning after. And I really did have practice.”  

“I get it. I haven’t, uh — this isn’t something I’ve done in a while.”

“Any thoughts on what I said?” Jaehyun arches a brow, and Mingyu matches his look with a mischievous smile of his own.

“About getting my number?” Mingyu pauses, as if to think his answer over. And then he holds up a finger. “Give me one second.”

He shoots Jaehyun a playful smile before turning on his heel and heading straight for the bar. All it takes is a coy smile to ask the bartender for a pen, and then he’s back in front of Jaehyun asking for his hand. Mingyu write his number on the back of his hand and lets it go, stepping back with a pleased look on his face.  

“I’m not really one for handwritten notes but — now you’ve got one from me, too.”

Jaehyun holds up his hand, wiggling his fingers playfully as he breaks out into a grin.

“I’ll hold you to it.”

And then Jaehyun asks him to dance, and his hand is warm in Mingyu’s, his touch familiar. It’s so easy Mingyu forgot how easy it could be to want someone, and to be wanted back. The night blurs, between the drinking games, the disastrous first (second) encounter with Jaehyun, and the many drinks he downs afterwards, Mingyu loses track of time. 

It’s exactly the night he needed after everything that’s happened in the past few weeks, the past few _months_. 

He makes it home at around two thirty-seven in the morning, loud and careless but deliriously euphoric. He bangs his foot into his bedframe and curses, laughs, hopping around as he tugs his other shoe off and almost knocks his lamp off his desk.

Wonwoo’s back is turned to the wall, there’s no sign or sound from him that he’s awake. 

For the first time in a very, very long time, Mingyu falls asleep to the dreamlessness of utter peace. 

 

 

\-----

 

 

 **jaehyun:** hey

 **jaehyun:** it’s me, jaehyun

 **jaehyun:** or, you know, the guy whose name you forgot after that one night 

 

Mingyu shoots upright in his seat in the middle of a lecture, eyes wide as re-reads the message, and then types out a reply. 

  

 **mingyu:** oh my god

 **mingyu:** are you gonna hold that against me forever. i said i was sorry :((( 

 

 **jaehyun:** ahhh they were right, you’re so easy to tease

  

 **mingyu:** please tell me you haven’t been talking to jungkook or bambam about me

 **mingyu:** if you have been they are both Dead to me

 

 **jaehyun:** it’s cute

 **jaehyun:** you’re cute

 

What the hell is that supposed to mean? _Oh my god._ Who just says things like _you’re cute_ and _it’s cute_ so easily? Is Jung Jaehyun even real?

 

 **mingyu:** well, /i/ know that. you don’t need those two to tell you that

 **mingyu:** anyway how is your day going?

 

 

 **jaehyun:** eh. classes are killing me but that’s what alcohol and partying is for right

 

 **mingyu:** a man after my own heart

 

 **jaehyun:** me of my friends are thinking of going out again on friday night to 

 **jaehyun:** we’re thinking of hitting up some of our usual places in itaewon

 **jaehyun:** you should come

 

 **mingyu:** sure, lmk the details

 

 **jaehyun:** i’ll pick you up at 8?

 

 **mingyu:** sounds good :)

 

 

\-----

 

 

At this point of time in a flirtationship, Mingyu would be calling in reinforcements and enlisting the wisdom and advice of Minghao and Seokmin. But he’s currently on _twenty-two_ missed calls in total, and dozens of other texts unanswered, and he can’t approach them out of the blue without seeming like a complete jerk who’s been ignoring his friends to chase after some dick even though, _admittedly_ , this is exactly what he’s been doing.

The combination of guilt and frustration and buried resentment has kept him at arms’ length from them from the beginning of this thing with Jaehyun. It’s too late now to be soliciting opinions on what to do or say when Mingyu’s seeing him again in two days.

He can hear their voices so clearly in his head that it makes his chest tighten instinctively, thinking about how much he misses them even though it’s been only a few days.

Maybe the truth Mingyu doesn’t want to face is that if Minghao and Seokmin were here, they’d ask him why he was doing this. 

They’d ask him if he really wanted this. And Mingyu doesn’t know if he wants to hear an answer that isn’t no.

There’s no reason he shouldn’t want this. He’s beholden to no one and nothing and Jaehyun is – _perfect_. Mingyu’s known him for less than a week but he can already tell he’s perfect as far as Mingyu’s intentions require him to be. Easy, painless, uncomplicated. He _deserves_ something — _someone_ — like Jaehyun. 

More than anything, he needs the distraction to keep himself from doing something stupid, like losing his patience and snapping at Wonwoo again after things have just started to quiet down. He needs to have something in his life that is completely, and utterly, Wonwoo-free. He needs to forget, temporarily, with people that have never met him or seen him or know anything about his history with Mingyu.

Just _one week_ , he tells himself. One week of getting to feel normal, and wanted, and _free_ of a heart that can’t stop punishing him for something that’s been long dead for years. 

  

\-----

 

 

Jaehyun and his friends are balls to the wall wild, Mingyu discovers. They’re loud, and chaotic and there’s over a dozen of them like Mingyu’s own group of tightly knit weirdoes he calls his. He fits right in, playing along with the lawless antics of Lucas and Yuta and Taeil, matching them all shot for shot. Ten and Taeyong tear up the dancefloor, and even without the never-ending stream of liquor, Mingyu has genuine, boundless fun. 

The music is thumping in his veins, alcohol loosening up his inhibitions and making every movement simultaneously sharper and blurrier, dulled by the warm tinge of drunken bliss. Jaehyun moves with purpose, every touch and brush of his hand imbued with intent. Mingyu’s lips curl as he watches Jaehyun eye the line of his throat when he tips his head back to run a hand through his hair. 

It’s like the last time, except Mingyu remembers more and more how exhilarating it is to have someone look at you with this much open desire. Mingyu wraps a hand around Jaehyun’s waist and tries very hard not to imagine dark hair and darker eyes. He relishes in the closeness of their bodies, his thigh grazing against Jaehyun’s sending a spark of electricity up his spine. Jaehyun touches him with confidence, with _hunger_ that isn’t buried beneath layers of fear or apprehension and Mingyu never wants this feeling to end.

The night goes like this: heat and electricity, the blazing want and uninhibited bravery of liquid courage driving him from recklessness to compulsion.

By the time people are ready to start leaving before dawn breaks in the new day, Mingyu can’t do anything but fixate on how much he doesn’t want to go home.

“Mingyu.” Jaehyun says. “Mingyu, _shit_   ” 

 _Oh_ , Mingyu thinks. That was the floor swaying a little too close for comfort just then. The world is — _unsteady_ on its gravitational axis.

“Just  hold on.” Jaehyun curses under his breath, fumbling to help Mingyu stand upright while keeping himself up, too. 

They’re both too drunk for this and if Mingyu were slightly more sober, he’d feel terrible about leaving Jaehyun with this responsibility. Handling a drunken Mingyu who’s three times as uncoordinated as he is sober is not something anyone should have to do alone. 

He feels Jaehyun fumbling around his pocket and can’t stifle a giggle. 

“ _Jaehyun_ ,” he mumbles, the syllables of his name slurring on his tongue. “Aren’t you at least gonna take me home first?”

“I’m _trying_ , Mingyu.” Jaehyun says, finally managing to tug his phone out of his pocket. “I need to get you home, but you’re not coming with _me_ in this state.” 

Mingyu pouts, curling himself tighter around Jaehyun. Jaehyun sighs, grabbing Mingyu’s hand so he can unlock his touch ID. A few moments later, he presses the phone to his ear, brow furrowing in his efforts to pull together some semblance of sobriety. 

“Uh, Jeon Wonwoo? Hey. Sorry, to call you at this hour, but I’m – with Mingyu. He’s too drunk to get himself home so I was wondering if you could text me his address. _Oh_ , okay. I mean, if you want? We’re in _Itaewon_   ”

Jaehyun blinks. “He hung up. But  he’s… coming to get you? At least I think.”

He glances over at Mingyu, who’s staring off into the distance, completely unfocused, eyes glassy and blown. “ _Fuck_ , Mingyu. I didn’t realise you’d had this much to drink…”

Mingyu clings tighter to Jaehyun, shifting to bury his face in his shoulder. 

“Don’t wanna go,” he mutters. “Wanna go home with _you_.”

“ _Mingyu…_ ”

“ _Don’t wanna see Wonwoo._ ”

It’s the only sober thought in his head. The dread and panic flying up to block his throat and choke his lungs at the idea of seeing Wonwoo now, or tomorrow, and all the days after that.  

“ _Please_.” Mingyu turns, pressing a kiss against Jaehyun’s throat, wet and open-mouthed, lips dragging down to his collarbones. It’s desperate, and just a little bit too honest, too vulnerable. “Let’s just. Let’s go back to yours.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

This is how Wonwoo finds them, in this club in Itaewon at three in the morning with an Uber waiting for them outside. Mingyu’s too far gone to string together complete sentences, let alone stay conscious at this point, and it takes a combined effort between the two men to wrangle him into the car. 

Jaehyun runs a hand through his hair, a strained awkwardness flickering across his face as he turns to Wonwoo. 

“I’m really sorry to have bothered you like this. You really didn’t have to come all the way out here  ” 

“I think we’re done here.” Wonwoo levels Jaehyun with a blistering look, gaze deadened save for the flare of impatient anger. He holds out his hand for Mingyu’s phone and Jaehyun passes it to him wordlessly.

“Tell him I’m text him,” Jaehyun says. Wonwoo gets into the car, flicks Jaehyun one last look, fury tightly wound beneath stone-cold indifference.  

“Yeah, _I’ll be sure to do that_ after I make sure he’s not going to die from alcohol poisoning.”

He slams the door shut, and the car drives off.

 

 

\-----

 

 

In the morning, Wonwoo leaves the trash can beside Mingyu’s bed, along with a glass of water and pain medication on his bedside table. He makes sure Mingyu’s head is tilted to the side and that he has his phone nearby when he wakes up.

The next day, he calls Seungcheol.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“ _Kim Mingyu_ , what the hell is this I’m hearing about you staying out till three in the morning partying with complete strangers in Itaewon?!” 

“Hyung, what the — what are you talking about?” Seungcheol’s voice, loud and slipping into Daegu-accented rage, is the last thing Mingyu expects to hear over the phone when he takes the call. 

“I might understand if you were still some clueless first year but you should know better by now! And _Itaewon_ , of all places. Are you trying to die? Or get beat up? Or kidnapped? God knows what could’ve happened to you!”

“Hyung,” Mingyu says, exasperation creeping into his voice as he hurriedly walks out of the coffee shop to avoid the stares he’s getting. “How do you even know this?”

“What? _How is that the important thing here?!_ ”

“I can’t believe this. _Wonwoo_ told you?” The record scratching noise in his head is less of a reaction sound than an actual physical kickback of incredulity. 

“So, what if he did, huh? At least _someone’s_ looking out for your dumb ass. Now what do you have to say for yourself, Kim Mingyu?”

It takes him a moment, a deep inhale through his nose, and out through his mouth. Because what in the _actual hell_   

“What do I have to say for myself? _Screw Wonwoo_ , is what I have to say. I mean, what the fuck? He’s spying on me so he can report back to you on everything I’m doing?”

“Mingyu, he was _worried_ about you. And by the sounds of it, rightfully so. He said you were too drunk to get yourself home and you were with someone you didn’t even _know_.”

“I was with a _friend_. Of course, I knew him! He’s the reason why Wonwoo knew where I was in the first place. Do you really think I’m that stupid?!”

“Stupid? No. Reckless? Yes! And the proof is right here. What the hell is going on with you, huh, Mingyu?”

Mingyu decides he’s not going to lose it outside a café on campus where people he might know can see him. He stalks back into the café, shut his laptop, unplugs his charger and shoves his stuff back into his bag. When he moves to answer the phone again, he’s considerably calmer, albeit no less furious.

“ _I swear to god if you hung up on me, Min_   ”

“Hyung, I’m here. This was… super humiliating. But enlightening. Thanks for calling, or whatever. I have to go now because I’m going to go _kill Wonwoo_.” 

“Mingyu! Jesus Christ, just _wait_    ”

Mingyu hangs up. And storms off on his warpath towards the dorm.

 

 

\-----

 

 

During the fifteen-minute walk it takes to get from his favourite café to their room, Mingyu considers at least three different options for how this can go.

  1. Fire and fury, lots of yelling and explosive drama – the most characteristic of him out all three options.


  1. Challenging Wonwoo for the crown of King of the Cold Shoulder – a 360 from Mingyu’s usual style and thus unsustainable in the long-run. Icing out Wonwoo when he’s clearly beyond mad at him would make for a fun twist of events, though.


  1. The sneak attack – catch Wonwoo off-guard by going in cool and casual, and then turning on him when he least suspects it.



Option 3 seems the most likely to get him the best results out of the three, and it’s what he lands on by the time he’s walking into the building and up the stairs.

Wonwoo’s sitting at his desk, reading, when Mingyu comes in. He dumps his bag on his desk, sheds his jacket, and takes out his phone, all without sparing Wonwoo a single look. He takes a seat on his bed, and then clears his throat. 

“So. Seungcheol-hyung called me earlier today.”

“Is that so?” Wonwoo replies, finger tucked at the edge of the book to mark his page as he looks up.

“Yeah. He had some… interesting things to say about some things he’d heard.”

Mingyu watches Wonwoo’s expression carefully for the slightest hint of something, _anything_. Wonwoo’s too good at this game to be tripped up by such an easy shot. Mingyu’s not going to get a single concession out of him like this when his entire personality is built on razor sharp self-control.

“I’m sure he did.” Wonwoo purses his lips, a moment of barely there disapproval, or triumph, or despise — Mingyu _can’t tell_ because he’s near impossible to read when he doesn’t want to be.

“Apparently, someone’s been keeping him _very_ up to date with the latest events in my life,” Mingyu says, carefully, voice tempered with uncharacteristic restraint.

“Mm, well, you know how much of a gossip he is. Words always get around fast when half your friend group can’t keep a secret.”

Oh, _he’s good_. Unfortunately for him the only one knows so far about where Mingyu was and what he was doing there is Wonwoo, and his blatantly transparent act at pretending he knows nothing at all about it. 

Mingyu decides to try something else. “You met Jaehyun that night too, right?”

Wonwoo blinks, and for the first time since Mingyu started in on him, looks genuinely taken aback for a second. And then it’s gone, subsumed beneath a placid smile, a casual, apathetic look. 

“I didn’t actually catch his name.” 

“Jung Jaehyun. He’s a basketballer. Jungkook and the other 97-liners introduced me to him.” Mingyu says, unsure of why it's important that Wonwoo knows who he is, only that the petty, impulsive part of him _demands_  to see a reaction. “I think he’s kinda into me.”

“If he still does after that night, all the more power to him.” Wonwoo’s silent for a moment, his eyes flicking away and down to his book. “Although, letting you get that drunk when your alcohol tolerance has never been as impressive as you think it is doesn’t bode well for your future relationship.”

“ _Cut the bullshit_ , Won – _hyung_.” Mingyu snaps, righteous anger flaring in his eyes. 

“You told Seungcheol everything. _Why?_ Because you knew he’d call me up to chew me out, and you didn’t have the balls to do it yourself?”

“Don’t make me laugh, Mingyu.” Wonwoo closes his book, sliding it further up the surface of his desk and meeting Mingyu’s eyes, calm and composed and betraying not even a _hint_ of emotion on his face. “I called him because I knew he’d be concerned. He’s the only person who’s ever been able to get through all that simple-minded impulsiveness.”

Mingyu can’t even be bothered to feel insulted by the casual way Wonwoo insults him, too focused on the rage building inside of him and the non-reaction he’s getting from Wonwoo. “ _What the fuck_ , Wonwoo, why would you tell him? I get that it’s your calling in life to make me look as stupid as possible at all times but did you have to drag _him_ into it?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s my _calling_ , you manage just fine all by yourself.”

“Can you just — _admit that it was a dick move_.” Thank god Mingyu isn’t an angry crier, or else he’d be one second away from the heat threatening to explode out of him in mindless yelling and shouting dissolving into tears.  

“Why would I do that?” Wonwoo laces his fingers together on the desk, slanting backwards in his seat to fix Mingyu with a calculated, piercing scrutiny. 

“Because  ” _The honour code_. Honour among brothers, or at the very least roommates. Some lingering loyalty to the years of friendship we used to have that you seem to delight in tearing down at every given opportunity. Mingyu doesn’t know what to say. Wonwoo does this so easily to him, always has. Steals the words right out of his mouth to make him seem foolish, and graceless, and forever at a disadvantage.  

“This is _my life_. And I don’t need you, or Seungcheol-hyung, interfering to tell me how you think I should live it.” Mingyu clenches his hands into measured fists, and then unclenches again. “Nothing I do ever seems to affect you anyway so I don’t know why _this_ matters so damn much.” 

Wonwoo narrows his eyes, and Mingyu can tell already that this answer has dissatisfied him to some degree, enough to coat the bladed edge of his tongue in venom. 

“It _affects_ me when I get woken up at three in the morning to go to fucking _Itaewon_ to drag your drunken ass home.”

“Nobody forced you to come!” Mingyu cries, his voice a snarl of vicious disbelief. “You’re acting like you had some _obligation_. But we’re not _friends_ anymore, remember?”

Wonwoo’s still, unsettlingly so — or at least it would be if Mingyu weren’t achingly familiar with this expression on his face. This permutation of cold condescension and mild contempt — as if _Mingyu_ is a chore, an unwanted, but unavoidable, task to get over and done with.

“You’re being childish.” Wonwoo says, the low drawl of his voice crueller than Mingyu thinks he means for it to be. But then, he’s always made excuses for Wonwoo, hasn’t he? Back when he still believed the affection Wonwoo had for him outweighed his resentment. Now he isn’t so sure, and they’re way past justifications for the terrible, hurtful words on their tongues. “Lashing out because you’re upset, acting out of spite, just because you’re incapable of separating your feelings from reality. As always.”

Mingyu’s mouth falls open, stunned into static fury, dumbfounded by the undercurrent of derision in Wonwoo’s ruthless psychoanalysis of him.  

“I’m not _you_ , Wonwoo.” Mingyu snaps, face twisting with self-defensive scorn, and outrage. “I can’t just shut off my emotions with the snap of my fingers.” 

“No, you’d rather scream and shout and pick fights with me over nothing then admit why you’re really mad at me.” 

 _Hypocrite_ , Mingyu thinks, anger lighting up like a solar flare in his head, blinding him temporarily to the hurt and misery and despair of hearing everything Wonwoo truly thinks stripped bare like this. _You’ve been mad at me ever since Before, Before when all of this really started to fall apart, and you’ve never told me fucking_ why.

“You want to know what I’m really mad about? I’m mad that you stay up till two o’clock in the morning gaming and no amount of trying to stay quiet is really quiet enough. I’m mad that you never empty the trash unless I remind you to at the last minute, and that you always leave the cap off the toothpaste no matter how many times I remind you. I’m mad that I have to live with someone who I can’t stand being around me and who can’t stand _me_ , and after all this time, could give less of a fuck about me except when I’m trying to have some fun and live my fucking life.”

“Mingyu, if you call stumbling home at three a.m. and forgetting to go to class and ignoring all your friends’ calls and messages _fun_ , you need to re-evaluate your priorities.” 

Has he been _spying_ on Mingyu now? Monitoring his activities and keeping track of every fault and flaw so he can hold it against him to show how much he’s lacking?

“And to top it all off here you are pretending to fucking care about my life when you’ve done nothing but make these last few years an absolute hell.”

Wonwoo’s eyes flash dangerously, his face darkening like grey sky before a thunderstorm. 

“ _Kim Mingyu_   ”

“So what if I had a little too much to drink?” Mingyu shoots to his feet, fists curled at his side to keep them from shaking. “Watching you do everything in your power to pretend I don’t exist makes me fucking miserable, hyung. Going out and being with people who don’t pity me makes me temporarily forget how much I hate being here in this room with you.”

“When I got that call the other night,” Wonwoo says, levelling Mingyu with his gaze as if there isn’t a staggering height difference now that he’s standing and Wonwoo’s still seated. “You could barely remember your own name let alone how to get home. A complete stranger wanted to know if I knew you were wandering around lost and drunk in Itaewon.”

Mingyu splutters, his anger momentarily derailed by the mention of Jaehyun. “I was with _friends_. Jaehyun is my friend.” 

“If he was your friend he never would have let you wind up in that state.” Wonwoo rises to his feet in one fluid, languid movement, circling around the edge of his desk. “Just because he says what you want to hear and takes you to bed at the end of the night doesn’t mean it’s the same for when he’s sober.”

Mingyu flinches, hard, Wonwoo’s brutal honesty sending reeling back a step as if he’d physically hit him, and all Mingyu can hear is the incisive, point-blank truth in his words. _That doesn’t mean he wants you_. 

Why would    _anyone_ ever want you?

And hearing it from the one person who sees Mingyu more clearly than anyone ever has –– all his character flaws and faults and failings in stark definition — devastates him.

He’s always been an open book, especially for Wonwoo, _always_ for Wonwoo. He can only imagine how the hurt has shattered in the wreckage of his expression. Whatever Wonwoo sees, the fleeting spill of uncertainty across his face only makes Mingyu feel worse. Because this is it, for them. The shreds and scraps of lingering hope and optimism about their future he’s clung to all this time like an anchor are disintegrating into nothing right before his eyes.

“Do you really…” It feels like he can’t catch his breath between the thundering of his heartbeat and the crushing tightness of his throat, his chest, his useless heart. “Do you really   _hate_ me that much?”

Wonwoo’s eyes widen a fraction, as if it’s his turn to flinch.

“All those years we were friends... was that just you putting up with me? Suppressing all the reasons you hate me so you could pretend to give a shit about me?” 

He pulls a shuddering breath from his lungs. “How is it this easy for you to  ”

Mingyu’s shoulders cave in around him, his face somewhere beyond fallen, raw and wounded and it’s been almost three years since the last time he felt this broken but it’s like that feeling never left. He thought if he just buried it deep enough that it’d never see the light of day again but it’s only grown, metastasised into something devastating, and defenceless. 

“You were my best friend. And I. I trusted you with _everything_ about me. I know I ruined everything before, it was my fault and I _fucked_ up but you  ”

Wonwoo doesn’t let him finish. He cuts Mingyu off mid-sentence, fingers grasping at his collar sliding to curl around the back of his neck, lips crushing against Mingyu’s, the kiss harsh, bruising, _breathless_. His heartbeat seizes in his chest, rage and desire lighting up every nerve ending his body, coalescing into a white-hot ball of anarchy in his head. And then Mingyu’s kissing him back, hands fisting in his shirt, driven by an electric, burning need. It’s teeth and tongue, a careless viciousness to the way they kiss, a danger and a reckoning.  

Wonwoo’s fingers clench in his hair, gripping tight at the base of his skull as the pressure of his mouth forces Mingyu to open for him. His tongue slakes across Mingyu’s bottom lip, his tongue, hard, filthy and fuelled with calculated heat. Mingyu gasps against the assault of his mouth, hands sliding up to clutch at Wonwoo’s jaw, angling his face so he can nip at the swell of Wonwoo’s lip. A low, harsh noise slips from Wonwoo’s lips as he tears away, and the force of him slamming into Mingyu again, mouth branding heat and lightning fury against his lips, sends Mingyu stumbling back against his bed. The backs of his legs hit the frame of his bed as they collapse into it, the pain barely a spark against the firestorm of hunger and chaos.

This isn’t _kissing_ , not really. It’s war, _entropy_ , the inevitability of everything they’ve been building to for years and years, imploding in spectacular, disastrous human instinct.  

Wonwoo thrusts his tongue between his lips, and Mingyu can taste all the cool, finely wound restraint of his self-control shattering hard and fast in the face of manifest compulsion. A moan sounds from the base of Wonwoo’s throat, and Mingyu chases it, mouth pressing back against Wonwoo’s, forcing him closer with a hand wrapped around his waist. The imprint of his fingers will bruise against Wonwoo’s fair skin, and the thought sends a shuddering thrill of desire through him.

It’s not how Mingyu imagined this happening in his wildest, most delirious dreams but _fuck_ , he’d be a fool to ruin this, too.

Wonwoo’s thighs are framed around his waist, pinning him down to the bed as he licks into his mouth, hot and wet and filthy. His hand fists in Mingyu’s hair, yanking his head back so he trail a line of kisses and teeth down his throat. A ragged gasp tears from Mingyu’s lips as he arches into the imprint of Wonwoo’s teeth biting down.

Mingyu tugs at him, pulls him up for another kiss so he can crush their mouths together until all he can taste is Wonwoo’s heartbeat against his tongue. 

Wonwoo gasps, a low, panting sound that rises and falls sharp and hard with the heaving of his chest and Mingyu can feel the heat of his breath. When he speaks, his voice is raw, _ruined_. 

“I don’t  fucking _hate_ you, Mingyu.”

And despite what he says, he kisses Mingyu like he does, the hunger and burning of his mouth searing against Mingyu’s lips as if this is how he intends to break him. 

He can feel the hardness between Wonwoo’s thighs every time he moves to nip and suck at his lips, his jaw, and when Mingyu grinds up into Wonwoo, the pressure against his aching erection tugs an involuntary groan from his own lips.

“I don’t care if you do.” Mingyu says, mouthing against Wonwoo’s neck, thrusting up against Wonwoo just to feel the lightning bolt of heat down his spine again. He circles an arm around Wonwoo’s waist – so _small_ and almost slender in his grip – and wrenches Wonwoo’s hips down as he rocks against him. Wonwoo lets out a groan from deep within his throat, his fingers tightening instinctively in Mingyu’s hair. Mingyu anchors his other hand around Wonwoo’s waist, Wonwoo’s hips spreading with the movement as Mingyu grinds up into him.

“You’re so _hard_.” It’s teasing, but strained with barely contained desire that’s tainted with borderline awe.

Wonwoo snarls against his skin, slamming his mouth against Mingyu’s as if to yank the words from his lips. “ _So are you_.”

His eyes darken into a glare, daring Mingyu to deny it. Mingyu stares into the black of Wonwoo’s gaze, and they’re pressed so close, foreheads crushed together, breathing in the same air. _This is happening_ , his pulse gutters and jumps, _this is really fucking happening_. 

“That’s what I thought,” Wonwoo growls, and he’s the first to move, shoving at Mingyu’s shirt and pulling at it the fabric like he means to rip it off him. Mingyu lets him go he can tear his shirt off, tossing it to the ground before starting in on Wonwoo. There’s no time to relish in the sight of Wonwoo’s bare skin, or the fine definition of his collarbones and chest and abs. There’s no sentimentality in the way Mingyu smooths his hands down over the plane of his stomach to reach his jeans, or the way he shoves his hand behind the unbuttoned seams and the layer of Wonwoo’s underwear to wrap around Wonwoo’s cock. 

He’s dripping from the head, hard, slick skin underneath Mingyu’s palm and when he pumps his hand around him once, Wonwoo jerks slightly, his hips twitching forwards. The movement seems to provoke something from him, because Wonwoo tenses against him, and then he’s knocking Mingyu’s hand away so he can unzip his pants to free his straining cock from his briefs. Wonwoo curls his hand around Mingyu’s cock, stroking down the length of him, the heat of his hand dragging through the precome leaking from the tip of his cock.

Mingyu bites back the moan on his tongue as Wonwoo twists his grip as he strokes up and down the length of him, the pressure just a little too much and too rough. Wonwoo fists his cock, hard, thumb dipping into his slit on the next upwards stroke to tease more of the slick wetness down his cock. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Mingyu breathes, hardening even further under Wonwoo’s touch. Wonwoo shoves their hips together, his cock brushing up against the fist he has curled around Mingyu’s. He grinds against him, their cocks sliding into each other and Mingyu lets out another strangled curse.    

And then Wonwoo’s lining them up against each other, his long fingers wrapping around both their cocks as he sets a harsh, relentless pace.

Mingyu arches into it, hips rutting up into his fist, a groan locked in his throat. He surges forwards, mouth pressing against Wonwoo’s as Wonwoo pumps them both up and down. He drags his lips down along Wonwoo’s throat to his collarbones, biting and sucking at the delicate skin there until he hears Wonwoo gasp.

The feeling of Wonwoo’s cock pressed against his, sliding and rubbing against his own with every stroke of Wonwoo’s hand, sends white-hot hunger coursing through him. The fact that Wonwoo is as hard as him, _is getting off on this_ as much as he is, lights up the part of his brain that deals in base instinct.

Wonwoo tightens his grip, twisting at the bases of their cocks on the next downwards pull and Mingyu’s hips jerk reactively into the circle of his fist. 

“Fuck   _Wonwoo_.” Mingyu wraps an arm around Wonwoo’s waist, hand splaying across the side of his other hip. He wraps his other hand around Wonwoo’s, the broad expanse of his palm circling around Wonwoo’s knuckles on top of their cocks. 

Wonwoo inhales sharply, and Mingyu takes advantage of the slight pause in his movements to drag both their palms up across their cocks in one long, agonising stroke. It’s a slower, more intense pressure than Wonwoo’s former rhythm, the glide of his hand around Wonwoo’s heavy and purposeful. Mingyu drags their fists up to the tips, rubbing and massaging at the wet, weeping heads of both their cocks. Wonwoo ruts up into their hands, the combined feeling of his palm and Wonwoo’s slicking over their cocks like pure adrenaline crashing over him in a wave.

They fuck like this, into the grip of both their hands, sliding harder and faster around each other as the pleasure and desire and exhilaration builds. Mingyu feels Wonwoo’s hips tightening around him as he arches into the movements, his back going ramrod straight as he comes first. The hot, wet heat of his come spills across their fingertips as Mingyu continues to pump their hands around them both, refusing to let up his pace.

Wonwoo squirms and gasps under the pressure, hips jerking at the overstimulation, but he makes no move to pull away. Mingyu angles his lips over Wonwoo’s, kissing him fierce and hard as the tide of pleasure breaks over him. Mingyu groans, low and wrecked into Wonwoo’s mouth as his come paints their hands, mingling with Wonwoo’s as it streaks along their fingers, filthy and wet.

His chest heaves as he struggles to get his heartbeat back under control, his orgasm temporarily draining him of any rational thought or feeling other than pure, undiluted bliss. The taste of euphoria on his tongue still lingering with traces of Wonwoo, his mouth, the feeling of his hand trailing across his skin.

Wonwoo’s hair is plastered against his forehead, a light sheen of sweat glistening on his skin – he looks ruined, gloriously dishevelled. And Mingyu wants to savour this moment forever, this feeling of light-headed rapture and bloodless calm, before it all crumbles back into chaos. The hand he has still wrapped around Wonwoo’s waist loosens, and he runs it softly up along the expanse of Wonwoo’s back, the pads of his fingers stroking up the length of his spine. He touches Wonwoo like he isn’t sure if he’ll ever get to do this again, tentative, _cautious_. Like if he moves too suddenly, the whole thing will break apart in his clumsy hands.  

Wonwoo’s skin is slightly feverish against Mingyu’s when he sinks forward, head tipping against Mingyu’s with a harsh exhale. His eyes lock on Mingyu’s, heavy and dark and impossible to look away from, a simmering intensity hardening in the endless black of his gaze, and the breath in Mingyu’s throat hitches helplessly. 

“This may well be one of the stupidest things we’ve ever done.” 

Mingyu doesn’t speak, just curls his hand around Wonwoo’s jaw and tilts his face back so he can quiet him, tongue parting Wonwoo’s lips to deepen the kiss. It’s heated, and intimate, but the urge to bruise and tear apart has faded into a strange sort of standstill. 

There’s no going back from this; whatever they had, whatever there was to salvage or rectify is gone. There’s a kind of freedom to knowing that they’ve burned the last of everything to the ground, and when Mingyu feels Wonwoo’s fingers at the back of his neck, moving in a soft, searing caress, he can't help but sink into it.

He shifts, lips brushing against the corner of Wonwoo's mouth as he speaks into the quiet stillness blanketing the air between them. 

“You never could resist trying to prove me wrong.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry this took so long to update !! thank you all for waiting so patiently and as always, thank you so much for all the love, comments & kudos <3
> 
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/bisexualgyu) / [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/gyuwu)


	5. in the midst of chaos there is also opportunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mingyu, my darling adorable useless gay.” Minghao lets out a sigh, setting down his wine glass with a small, refined flourish as if to signify he’s about to serve him some tough love masquerading as a cutting disparagement of Mingyu’s choices, personality, and life, in general. “Your dick is telling you something that your heart doesn’t want to admit.”
> 
> “That’s great, Minghao. Write that one down for your next angsty poetic Instagram caption.”
> 
> “Shut up, you ass, I’m being serious.”
> 
> “So am I. It could be the next Milk and Honey. “Your dick / paints pictures / that only my heart / sees.”

   

Mingyu knows what Wonwoo looks like angry, _defiant_ , happy, distressed, _torn_ — every shade of emotion on the spectrum and even some in between, not quite defined enough to have their own name. The look on Wonwoo’s face when he’s beyond the point of conscious self-control, _wrecked_ , and so far gone it’s almost obscene, is something entirely new. Something entirely foreign, and breathlessly riveting. 

If he could, he’d brand the sight of Wonwoo with kiss-stained lips, red and pressure-bruised, his mouth slick with stifled moans, against the backs of his eyes. The flush of his fair skin, tinged hot with perspiration, with hunger, his dark hair swept messy with sex, from being strewn amidst the sheets like pressed flowers, ruffled by Mingyu’s own fingers. And everywhere that isn’t heated with the imprint of his hands, or lips, or teeth, Mingyu’s already mapped out in his head how and exactly where he plans to make his mark. He tastes each sound he pulls from Wonwoo’s mouth like it’s coated in gold and spun sugar, each a small victory of Wonwoo’s carefully assembled armour crumbling beneath the press of his hands against his hips, the curve of his ribs.  

Mingyu wants to remember this — Wonwoo, open-mouthed and panting, clutching desperately at Mingyu, slowly unravelling into nothing more than a shaking, gasping mess – while he still can.

It’s still a game — this is just the way things are now, with them, their new equilibrium – but the rules have been shattered, re-forged into a simmering, volatile clash of bad ideas and hard, fast sex. The first time Wonwoo makes Mingyu come, it’s with nothing but his hand around him and his lips pressed to his ear, breathing every filthy thought he can think to reduce Mingyu to a shuddering, whimpering shadow of himself. He’d hovered over Mingyu, triumphant smirk carving a slash of smug satisfaction across his lips.

There’s no method or calculation to it. One second Mingyu will be complaining about Wonwoo accidentally leaving his lights on all night, and the next Wonwoo is shoving him down into his chair and sliding fast into his lap, mouth hot and insistent on his as he silences him with harsh kisses and rough hands in his hair. Or Mingyu will ‘accidentally’ knock one of Wonwoo’s books from his desk, and end up with Wonwoo’s hand fisted in his shirt and his own down Wonwoo’s pants. 

Now, a fight is merely an excuse to get their hands on each other, the half-hearted foreplay to the _actual_ foreplay. They kiss like they argue, relentlessly, neither willing to surrender the advantage when they have it.

There’s no gentleness to the way they touch — which is the way Wonwoo seems to prefer it. His mouth, so perfectly made for sharpening the words on his tongue, is no softer pressed against Mingyu’s own, or branded on his skin in the shape of his teeth. Mingyu’s hands fit right into the angles of his hipbones, his palms curling around Wonwoo’s smaller frame the ideal place to pin him to the bed, the wall, the nearest flat surface. He leaves bruises, because Wonwoo doesn’t seem to mind, seems to almost demand it with his blazing kisses and the intensity of his gaze as he urges Mingyu faster, harder, and god, _what the fuck is he waiting for?_

This isn’t how Mingyu imagined this happening. He didn’t think the first time he’d get to map a trail of kisses along Wonwoo’s collarbones it’d be with Wonwoo’s legs wrapped around his thighs, crushing against his sides as he groaned and snapped at him to _stop fucking around, Kim Mingyu_. He didn’t imagine their kisses tasting so much like teeth, and anger. 

They collide like an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object, a hurricane in a lightning storm — and the hunger is so blindingly sharp, so insatiable, that Mingyu never feels the regret until he’s wiping up his stomach with some tissues and reaching over to clean Wonwoo up, too.  

Wonwoo brushes him off, every time, like clockwork. As if allowing Mingyu this one tiny concession of gentleness will render everything they’ve done somehow too vulnerable and raw, too unbearably real. He drags himself from the bed and throws on pants, an old t-shirt, and heads to the bathroom for a shower without a word. As if letting Mingyu take care of him in this single, insignificant way would make what they’re doing more personal than it already is.

There’s nothing more intimate in the world than knowing what someone’s face looks like when they’re on the brink of pure and utter abandon, all inhibitions for that one, euphoric moment stripped back to the barest form of pleasure.

Wonwoo seems to think that keeping him at the arm’s distance of a very strange, very convenient friend with benefits, he can keep this becoming any messier than it already is. 

They talk about it only once, over brunch after he’s just made Mingyu come harder than he ever has in his entire life with the same mouth he has pressed to the edge of his cup of coffee:

“Logically, we really shouldn’t be doing this. The no strings attached arrangement is a terrible idea for people with this much bad blood between them.”

Mingyu stares, and then gives a disbelieving snort as he shakes his head. Trust Wonwoo to cut straight to the heart of the matter.

“But. It’s... _well_. It is what it is.” Just like that, in Wonwoo’s serene, matter-of-fact tone.

“Such a way with words, hyung. And to think you’re trying to build a professional career out of this.” Mingyu takes a bite out of his croissant. 

“Shut up.” Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “There’s only one condition that really matters anyway.” 

“And what’s that?” Mingyu asks, morbid curiosity getting the better of him.

“The moment one of us wants to stop, we stop. That’s it. No regrets, no nothing.” The implication, of course, being that they currently both have no intention of stopping this. Whatever disastrous, ill-conceived mess _this_ is. 

Mingyu thinks about this for a few seconds, and then nods and holds up his pinky finger.

Wonwoo arches a brow at him, but Mingyu doesn’t waver, just stares him down expectantly, eyes wide and dead serious.

“Fine,” Wonwoo huffs, and reaches out to curl his pinky finger around Mingyu’s. Mingyu twists his thumb around to press it firmly against Wonwoo’s, sealing them together.

Mingyu doesn’t care what Wonwoo says, pinky promises are sacred. They’re built on the purest, highest form of truth. You don’t break them, even if it’s for something as insane and ridiculously stupid as becoming friends with benefits with someone who used to be your best friend, who you maybe sort of used to have and might still have non platonic feelings for, and who definitely now hates everything about you apart from your ability to have really amazing, mind-blowingly good sex with them. 

Promises like this are built on the innocence and childlike sincerity of entrusting someone with your faith, your utmost belief.

Maybe, _maybe_ if Mingyu believes hard enough, he’ll survive this without breaking his own heart.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“Imagine my surprise, Kim Mingyu, when I Iearned that contrary to my understanding, you weren’t actually _dead_.” 

Mingyu swallows, his throat suddenly Sahara dry and parched of any excuses or justifications. He looks up from his favourite spot in the fine arts and design department’s library, nestled into a corner between the architecture section and abstract impressionist art, to find Minghao towering over him and seemingly eight feet tall. 

Xu Minghao is terrifying — this is a fact Mingyu has always been distinctly aware of. It’s been dulled by time spent together sharing in their deepest secrets and ambitions in the dead of night over wine and candlelight, buffeted by the fondness and staunch affection Minghao has for him. But the eldritch terror Minghao’s always been capable of summoning from somewhere in the dark of his soul is out in full force now, pitch black eyes narrowed into slits, boring into Mingyu’s very soul. 

“I’m sorry!” Mingyu yelps, throwing his hands up in a weak attempt at peace. “Let me explain — ”

“Nope. No need. I can already tell that in my absence your life has descended into absolute catastrophe.”

“Hao — ” Mingyu attempts, against his better judgement. 

“ _And I know_ that as your designated best friend in the entire universe apart from Seokmin, you have been ignoring me only because you knew what I would have to say about the many severely poor choices you’ve made these past two weeks.” 

Mingyu deflates, his face falling in defeat, crumbling like a house of cards built from tissue paper. “It sounds bad when you put it like _that_ — ”

“That’s because it is.”

Mingyu feels like a terrible, awful person. A terrible, awful _friend_. What excuse does he have for ghosting Minghao’s every attempt at communication and avoiding him like the plague for these past several days except that he was – _embarrassed_? Afraid. Of what Minghao would say, or think, or disapprove. It feels small and stupid to even admit it out loud in the comfort of his own mind, let alone to Minghao himself. 

“You have some _explaining_ to do,” Minghao says, interrupting his reverie with an impatient purse of his lips. And Mingyu’s grateful, at the very least, for how little sentimentality Minghao has for pleasantries and meaningless small talk. Minghao doesn’t do _catching up_ , either you’re spilling your soul to him and all the secrets you’ve never told anyone before, or he hasn’t decided you’re worthy of his time. 

“We’re going out to dinner at a very expensive restaurant of my choice where we will proceed to drink several overpriced bottles of wine, and you are going to tell me exactly what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Minghao turns on his heel, and begins to storm — well, _saunter_ ; Xu Minghao doesn’t so much as walk anywhere as he does _glide_ — away. Mingyu hurriedly tosses his books, notes, and pens into his bag, shoving his laptop in last, and tears after him.

True to Minghao’s word, he picks one of the most upscale restaurants in the neighbourhood. One of the establishments bordering on Western fine dining that they’d always walked past on a night out and fantasised about eating at when they’d finally become the rich, successful ingénues and darlings of the art and fashion elite they always dreamed about being. This is Minghao’s version of making Mingyu beg and scrape for forgiveness, without the public display of humiliation.

Mingyu tries not to wince when they flip open the menus, eyes scanning the fine gilt work of the embossed letters and fancy typographic design.

“You can _relax_ ,” Minghao huffs, after a few seconds of tense silence. “I know the person who owns the restaurant.”

“Are you serious? _How?!_ And since when?” Mingyu splutters. He casts a surreptitious glance around them, at the fine extravagance of the décor dripping in luxury and _status_ , before turning back to Minghao, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial hush. “Is he — is he your _sugar daddy_ or something?”

“You would _know_ all of this already if you hadn’t spent two weeks ghosting me,” is all Minghao says with a demure sniff.

Mingyu sighs, and folds his menu delicately against the table. “ _Minghao_ , please. I’m sorry. I really am.” 

“…For _what_?” Minghao eyes him over the edge of his menu, still open and guarding the rest of his face like a physical barrier between him and Mingyu’s attempts at an apology.

“For being a shitty friend. For… ignoring you, for not replying. I’ve been a real dick, I know.” Mingyu sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. Minghao lets him suffer for a moment longer, letting the silence drag on thick and suffocating as Mingyu languishes in his guilt.

“It’s stupid. I just – I don’t know. _I wasn’t thinking._ At all. And it’s – I knew what you’d say, and what you’d think if I told you everything that was happening and I just… I wanted to make dumb, fucked-up life choices without having to think about how dumb and fucked-up they were just yet.” 

“It’s not _just_ that, asshole.” Minghao rolls his eyes, eyes sparking with genuine exasperation. “You’re really going to make me say I was worried about you, huh?”

Minghao snaps his own menu shut, pinning Mingyu with a look that only makes him feel worse about all of this. 

“You could’ve been _legitimately_ dead for all I knew. Picked up and murdered by some Grindr serial killer or something.”

Mingyu chokes on his breath. “ _Wh_ — How the hell would that even happen? As if I’d swipe right on an actual serial killer!”

“You don’t know that. You’ve made plenty of questionable choices where your dick is concerned, need I remind you. Do you want them listed chronologically, or alphabetically?” Mingyu looks at Minghao, _really_ looks at him, without the urge to mutter a sarcastic retort clouding his vision or the sense of defensive remorse still lingering in him. It dawns on him that Minghao’s absence from his life these past few days, deliberate and intentionally designed as part of Mingyu’s failure to be a proper friend, has left not only _him_ but Minghao a little lost. A little less whole.

“You’re right,” Mingyu says softly, no trace of fire or teasing to his words. Just straightforward sincerity. “I do need you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have cut you out like that.”

Minghao eyes him quietly, his expression going still as he weighs up whether or not Mingyu’s admission has met his standards for acceptable levels of contrition. It seems to pass the test, and Minghao lets a small, arch smile flicker across his face. 

“I always am. Now, let’s hurry up and order. I’m going to need a glass, or several, before you even begin filling me in on everything.”

Minghao orders a Cabernet Sauvignon that’s been aged for longer than they’ve been alive and he makes Mingyu wait until their glasses have been poured for gesturing for him to start with a flourish of his hand. 

Mingyu tells him everything, and at the end, despite his worries and unfounded misgivings about Minghao’s judgement, all Minghao does is give a low, measured hum, and then a shake of his head as he scoffs.

“Yah, _Kim Mingyu_. You really are something.” Minghao seems almost… _impressed_? And Mingyu can’t tell yet if that’s more concerning than outright censure.

“Just say I’m a dumbass and go,” he grumbles, words muffled into the rim of his wine glass.

“Well, _yes_ , I could. But then who would there be to laugh with you about the terrible, tragically comic misfortunes of your love life?”

“There _is_ no love life. That’s the point.” Mingyu frowns, and takes a long gulp of his wine. “My entire existence is just a practical joke the universe is playing on me, and I’m the only one who’s not laughing.”

“Oh, sweetheart. It’s much worse than that.” Minghao sips delicately at his own wine before setting it down on the table, eyes agleam with Cheshire cat mischief. “You only think you’re in some ancient blood feud with your self-proclaimed enemy. When, really, all this time you’ve been writing your own star-crossed romance.”

His wine goes down the wrong way, and Mingyu ends up coughing and gasping for a few stunned, speechless seconds. “ _Romance?!_ In what fucked-up reality would Wonwoo and I be in any kind of _romance_?” 

“I never said it was a happy one. Haven’t you ever read Shakespeare?”

“No, because who needs Shakespeare when I have Jeon Wonwoo breathing down my neck, no doubt plotting how he’s going to use this against me to beat me once and for all and _win_.”

“Win _what_?”

“The satisfaction of crushing my dignity and pride, and probably my soul.”

Minghao shoots him an indulgent smile, bemusement glittering in his sidelong glance. “Is the sex that bad?”

“To quote _Hamlet_ , act III, scene III, line 92  “ _no_ ”, and fuck you.”

“Then what’s the problem? Apart from the fact that you entered into a casual sexual agreement with someone who you’ve basically been in love with for half your life.”

“It’s not — _I’m not_ , nor was I _ever_ , _in love with him._ ” Mingyu chokes out, hands curling on the table in front of him. “I was a kid, a stupid kid, and he was the best friend you convince yourself you’re in love with when you’re young and dumb and still struggling to figure out what the fuck it means when you like girls _and_ boys.” 

Minghao makes a sympathetic noise, swirling his wine glass between his slender fingers.

“I honestly never pictured Wonwoo as being particularly impressive in bed, but his dick must be _something_ for all of that to fly out the window.”

“What do you want me to say, Minghao? That this is extremely stupid, and will probably end in complete disaster? I know that, _this isn’t helpful_.” 

“An acknowledgement that I was right all along would be a start,” Minghao says primly.

“That would take all day according to your oversized ego.”

“Remember how I suggested you two needed to fuck the aggression and childish bullshit out of your system, and you said, and I _quote_ , “I would rather die of blue balls and unresolved sexual tension rather than have hatesex with Wonwoo”.” 

“Look, the universe _really_ hates me and my big, stupid mouth.”

“Mingyu, my darling adorable useless gay.” Minghao lets out a sigh, setting down his wine glass with a small, refined flourish as if to signify he’s about to serve him some tough love masquerading as a cutting disparagement of Mingyu’s choices, personality, and life, in general. “Your dick is telling you something that your heart doesn’t want to admit.”

“That’s great, Minghao. Write that one down for your next angsty poetic Instagram caption.”

“Shut up, you _ass_ , I’m being serious.”

“So am I. It could be the next _Milk and Honey_. “ _Your dick / paints pictures / that only my heart / sees._ ”

“Okay, fine. I won’t give you the advice you need to fix your disaster zone of a love life then, choke for all I care.”

Mingyu makes a wounded noise, widening his eyes and pulling a boyish pout. “No, please. Oh, Mighty Xu Minghao. Please bless me with your infinite dick wisdom.”

“I said what I said. You’re getting dicked down by someone when you so clearly want more than just meaningless sex.”

“Imagine being that _wrong_ about what my dick wants.”

Minghao rolls his eyes, and downs half of his wine before speaking again. “Okay, bitch. Stay in denial.”

“ _Denial_.” Mingyu echoes back in a high-pitched voice. “I am not. I am the farthest thing from it. My eyes are wide open, and so is my heart.”

“So are your _pants_ , you slut.” 

Mingyu opens his mouth to argue back, but can’t seem to disagree. Instead, he just shrugs. “Ok, _point_.”

“You said you were a dumb kid when you… fell in _not-love_ with Wonwoo. That still means something though. He was the first guy you were ever interested in. 

“It was hormones. Infatuation.” Mingyu replies easily, dismissively. “I was driven by horniness and teenage lust.” 

Minghao fixes him with a cool, steady gaze. “ _He was your gay awakening._ That’s got to fuck someone up inside regardless of whatever unaffected macho act you want to put on to cover up the fact that whatever happened between you two back then really _hurt you_.” 

Mingyu’s grip curls around the stem of his wine glass, and he tears his eyes away from Minghao to stare, hard, at the table. At anywhere that isn’t Minghao’s piercing gaze. His chest feels tight, a tension that’s crept up on him slowly, winding through his ribs and settling in the base of his throat, making it difficult to breathe without the weight dragging each breath down.

“Why are you doing this, Gyu?” Minghao’s voice softens, still unwavering and unrelenting, but with just enough gentleness. “Why would you do it if you know all it’s going to is hurt you?”

Everything goes quiet around him, fading into a light background buzz of noise and conversation, silverware and wine glasses clinking. His heart thuds in his chest, damning, and so, so very heavy. Mingyu isn’t a masochist, he doesn’t – _enjoy_ wallowing like this, he hates the idea of self-pity, of suffering and not doing anything about it. He’s not someone who suffers quietly, alone and in isolation. It’s not in his nature to languish in sorrow and sadness, to curl up in the pain as some people do for the sake of catharsis. He’s just fine avoiding his problems, burying them beneath twenty shiny, new, time-consuming distractions, outrunning them until he’s breathless and exhausted. 

This thing with Wonwoo isn’t something he can’t outrun. It sits in his chest, in his veins, sinking into the deep sediment of him and saturating every breath and movement and thought. Wonwoo is so deeply ingrained in him, he’d nick every major artery and organ trying to cut him out. And maybe it’s self-destructive, impulsive, _foolish_ , but if Wonwoo is never going to want him back anyway, how is this any worse than letting him hate Mingyu from a distance? 

Mingyu isn’t a masochist. He has no use for misery, doesn’t like to be sad or alone. So maybe it’s more of a testament to how much he wants Wonwoo not to hate him that he’s willing to risk it all just to shut his heart up. Because maybe this can be enough. It _has_ to be enough. Wonwoo is never going to want him. Wonwoo is never going to kiss him like this is something good, and worthwhile. Wonwoo wants rough, dirty sex and harsh, bruising kisses and touches that stain like spilt watercolour on his skin.

It’s not what Mingyu wants (he’s tired, tired of hurting, maybe it’s a victory to be the one who gets to choose how it hurts), but it’s enough. _It’s enough._  

“I just… wanted to know what it was like.” It sounds small, and desperate, two things Mingyu has never been except when it comes to Jeon Wonwoo. 

“To kiss him. To…     _to be with him_. Even if it’s not — _real_.”

(He wants Wonwoo not to hate him. And the way Wonwoo looks at him when he _wants him_ , his hands, his mouth – he can’t _hate him_ and look at him like that, too.)

“This is… all I get to have of him.” Because he burned down all the bridges that might’ve led them back to neutral territory, to safe ground, when he kissed Wonwoo back. Because you can’t _come back_ from knowing what someone looks like when they come apart with so much wild, reckless pleasure that they forget there’s anyone else in the universe except for you. And those fleeting moments of affection when Wonwoo touches his face, brushes his hair back from his forehead, as if it means something to him, to be with Mingyu like this, they’re the reason Mingyu hasn’t yet lost his mind. 

There’s no way backwards, only forwards. And Mingyu would rather take these scraps of ersatz desire and abandon – even the sickening dread that sinks heavy and hollow down into him when he thinks about what comes _after_ – than pretending that he’s fine with a world where they’re nothing more than strangers to each other.

“I refuse to be held accountable for what happens to his body when this inevitably ends in flames and tears.”

“Thanks, Minghao.” Mingyu says, because that’s what you do when your best friend offers to murder someone for you. Even the boy you maybe, sort of, hopelessly, _helplessly_ , love. “I appreciate that.”

“Any time, Gyu. Now pour us another drink, no point wasting this bougie ass wine if it’s on my sugar daddy’s dime.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

If Mingyu spends a second longer staring at this essay, he’s going to lose his mind. It’s been two and a half hours of scrolling through endless journal articles and long-winded academic ramblings on urban design theory. The sentences are all beginning to blur into the single nonsensical string of unintelligible words at this point.

He stretches in his seat, shaking out his legs and feet from the encroaching numbness. He slips his phone out of his pocket to check the time and flick through his notifications. He has half a dozen Kakao messages from the usual suspects: Minghao, Seokmin, Joshua.

Out of pure impulse, he pulls up his chat with Wonwoo. The last message he sent Wonwoo sends a wince flickering across his face.

Letting out a sigh, Mingyu straightens and taps out a brief, harmless greeting.

 

 

 **mingyu:** hey

what r u doing rn

 

 

It takes Wonwoo _fifteen minutes_ to reply. Mingyu isn’t counting, of course. He’s on a study break with no better distractions is all.

 

 

 **wonwoo:** studying. why?

 

 

 **mingyu:** lol forgot who i was talking to for a second here. of course u are

 

 

 **wonwoo:** well, as I said. I’m studying, so, did you need something or can I get back to working on the thesis that’s literally going to determine whether or not I get to  successfully graduate

 

 

A frown tugs at Mingyu’s face. He can picture the exact expression on Wonwoo’s face right now – irritated, his brow furrowing in that pinched way it always does when he’s trying to focus on something else.

 

 

 **mingyu:** ooooookay

no need to be so snippy with me mr. wonwoo

 

wonwoooo don’t ignore me

jeononu

:///

 

 

Twenty-eight minutes pass this time, and Mingyu half-heartedly returns to the word document where he’s drawn up his essay plan before giving up and reaching restlessly for his phone again. 

 

 

 **mingyu:** ok im sorry i was just wondering

if u wanted to like

hang out maybe

or not hang out but like. y know..

 

 **wonwoo:** fuck?

 

 **mingyu:** um

yes?

 

 **wonwoo:** if you can’t handle explicitly asking for it maybe you shouldn’t be asking for it at all

 

 **mingyu:** hyung :(

 

ok

fine.

 

 

How the fuck does one proposition Jeon Wonwoo with an evening of hot, dirty, casual, no strings attached, barely friends with occasional benefits, _sex_?

 

 

 **mingyu:** do you want.... to netflix and fuck?

 

 

Wonwoo replies in a record time of two minutes, because apparently, he’s going to make Mingyu _work for it_ in the midst of all this humiliation.

 

 

 **wonwoo:** wow. is that all the effort i’m worth?

 

 **mingyu:** do you want to ~ netflix (*˙ ︶˙*) and fuck( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ~ ?

 

 **wonwoo** : you’re ridiculous

 

 **mingyu:** is that a yes?

 

 **wonwoo:** sure. why not. i’ll be home at around nine.

 

 **mingyu:** that’s like 5 hours away!!

 

 **wonwoo:** i have to study mingyu

 

 **mingyu:** why would you pick being responsible over having your soul sucked out of you through your dick

 

 **wonwoo:** oh dear god

 

 **mingyu:** is what you’ll be saying! when i’m done with you

if you can even form sentences that is

 

 **wonwoo:** i hope you can putting your money where your mouth is

 **mingyu:** those are some big promises

 

 **mingyu:** its not the only thing that’s big though

 

 **wonwoo:** oh my god.

enough

i really have to study

 

 **mingyu:** aw. okay then.

see you at 9 

( ´ ♡ ` )

 

 

Knowing what’s going to happen at nine o’clock when he gets home gives him all the motivation he needs to finish the majority of his essay. Mingyu sits back in his seat, sighing in satisfaction at an evening’s worth of work hard-earned. It’s 8:47PM when he packs his things away and starts heading home.

He has minutes to spare when he opens the door to find the room empty, and his heartbeat spikes with anxious energy at the thought of Wonwoo coming through that door any second. Wonwoo coming home — Wonwoo _kissing him_.

A full-faced blush blooms on his skin, and even though no one’s around to see it, Mingyu ducks to hide his face behind his hands anyway.

How is he supposed to last three more minutes of the butterflies in his stomach rioting to be let out of their cage? What is he supposed to do with this nervous schoolboy crush and its refusal to let him have any dignity about this? He hasn’t felt this apprehensive about sex, or making out with someone, or _anything_ , since his growth spurt in junior high left him towering over everyone in his grade and all the prettiest girls in school.

He feels like an _idiot_. A terrible ( _lovesick_ ) lust-drunk fool.

Mingyu lies sits down on his bed, spends several seconds fidgeting and shifting around trying to find an appropriately nonchalant position for when Wonwoo shows up.

At 9:04PM, he gets bored and opens up Instagram to channel his anxiousness into something productive, like scrolling through his feed and liking every picture he sees of a couple in an act that’s the complete opposite self-care. 

Somewhere between the fourth photo of two people in sickeningly cute couple wear and someone’s 100-day anniversary post wishing their boyfriend a hundred, a thousand more days of happiness together, Mingyu falls asleep, angry but unsurprised.

 

 

\------

 

 

It’s difficult remembering that he’s meant to be mad at Wonwoo when he wakes up feeling more well-rested and comfortable than he has all week. Maybe he’d underestimated how exhausted he’d been juggling practice, and homework, and social commitments. Not to mention the amount of time he’s spent worrying and overthinking and trying not to panic about the Wonwoo situation.

The covers are pulled halfway over him, which is strange, given that Mingyu distinctly remembers falling asleep on top of his bed. The blanket tucked around him is one that he doesn’t recognise at first. It’s slightly worn, the stitching fraying at one side, and it takes him a few moments longer to realise where he’s seen it before, _on Wonwoo’s bed_.

Wonwoo… _tucked him into bed?_ Is he dreaming right now?

Mingyu blinks, staring up at the ceiling and wavering between going back to sleep and the bizarrely pleasant dream of a world where Wonwoo does things like _tuck him into bed_ with his own blanket Mingyu’s pretty sure is the one he’s had since he was like seven that his grandmother made him.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

This _is_ a very strange dream, Mingyu thinks hazily as he turns his head slightly to find Wonwoo peering down at him.

“Morning,” Wonwoo says, eyes crinkling slightly. He holds up a plastic bag like it’s meant to mean something to dream-Mingyu. And who knows? Maybe plastic bags from convenience stores have some kind of deeper significance that Mingyu doesn’t know about, like falling, or flying. 

“I bought ramyeon.” Dream-Wonwoo says. Again, _odd_ , but nothing that strikes Mingyu as particularly symbolic of anything.

Wonwoo’s face shifts slowly into a frown, which is a shame, because Mingyu likes his face when it’s smiling. It’s bright, and sunny, and very pretty. 

“’S this a dream?” Mingyu says, voice rough with sleep.

Wonwoo squints, and it makes his eyes even longer and sharper behind the frames of his glasses. “You’re awake, as far as I can tell.”

Mingyu grunts, closing his eyes in a distant mortification that borders on _defeat_. He sinks beneath the edge of the blanket, scrunching himself up under its protection, a gesture that only serves to make his feet stick out from the other end of the bed. 

Wonwoo chuckles, low and amused, the huffing sound of his laugh making something half-asleep and not quite awake enough to know better in Mingyu’s chest light up with happiness.

“You always laugh at me when I’m mad at you.”

Mingyu is _not_ pouting beneath his blanket. He’s sulking. There’s a difference, thank you very much.

“Don’t pout.” Wonwoo says, and there’s some rustling that sounds like him taking out the ramyeon. “I brought you breakfast to say sorry.”

“You’re _always_ saying sorry.” The words are muffled beneath the blanket but the disgruntlement comes through loud and clear. Wonwoo falls quiet. _Good_ , Mingyu thinks. _Don’t have a smug comeback for_ that _, huh?_

Mingyu curls his feet up beneath the blanket, too, and he’s ready to ignore Wonwoo and go back to sleep when the covers are suddenly pulled back from his head and blinding sunlight comes streaming in. Mingyu groans, reaching out an arm to smack Wonwoo’s hand away as he flings the other one over his face to block out the light.

“Go away,” Mingyu whines. “Let me _sleep_.”

Wonwoo seems to consider for that a fleeting few seconds, and then:

“ _Mingyu-yah._ ”

And _fuck_ , how is that fair? How is it _fucking fair_ that he can render Mingyu so helplessly gone with just the sound of his own name? His heart falters in his chest at the way Wonwoo’s voice dips low and velvet-soft around his name — that weak, disloyal bitch.

Mingyu wants to die, or sink right through the ground.

He lets out another whine from inside his throat, crossing both arms over his face. Is it too much to ask to be left alone to languish in his gay suffering in peace?

“It’s your favourite. I really am sorry.” Wonwoo sighs. “Although, I was only running ten minutes late and by the time I got home you were already asleep.”

Well, _okay_ , that fact hadn’t exactly occurred to Mingyu. A minute of real time is equivalent to two Instagram hours.

“I wasn’t sure if you were trying out some new seduction technique or had genuinely fallen asleep. But then you started _snoring_ , so — ”

“Hey!” Mingyu jerks upright abruptly, swinging his arms down from his face. “I do _not_ snore, take that _back_.”

“ _Ah_ , and look who’s finally awake. Good morning, Mingyu-ssi.” Wonwoo replies, one corner of his mouth lifting in a crooked, asymmetrical smirk. And Mingyu really, _really_ , wants to punch him in the mouth, with his own mouth.

Mingyu slumps grumpily in his seat as Wonwoo prepares the ramyeon with the full extent of his cooking abilities. This is Wonwoo’s victory, through and through. Wonwoo even has the audacity to smile when he sets the ramyeon down in front of Mingyu. This is some new kind of _psychological warfare_ , Mingyu just knows it. All of this – Wonwoo being _nice_ , buying him food, tucking him into bed; the complete lack of ulterior sexual motivations – is just a part of some grand master plan designed to get Mingyu to let his guard down. waiting for him to let his guard down.

Wonwoo pulls up Mingyu’s chair to the side of his desk so they can eat together. Mingyu studies him from this angle, eyes narrowed suspiciously at Wonwoo as Wonwoo eats, oblivious to Mingyu’s internal conflict. 

“Why would you buy me _breakfast_?” Mingyu says, breaking the silence uninterrupted save for the sounds of their eating. 

“I felt like it.” Wonwoo shrugs. And Mingyu’s mind nearly loses it trying to decipher what the hell _I felt like it_ is supposed to mean in Wonwoo language. “You’ve been looking thinner recently. Seemed like you could use a proper breakfast, even if it’s just instant ramyeon.”

Mingyu stares, one of his eyes twitching slightly out of incredulity, maybe some lingering tiredness. 

He doesn’t know what to say to that. Suppressing a growl of frustration, Mingyu shoves another bite into his mouth and resorts to chewing in heated silence. 

_Jeon Wonwoo: 1. Kim Mingyu: 0._

 

 

\-----

 

 

“I think he’s trying to kill me.”

Jeonghan makes a distracted, noncommittal noise, turning over one of the pages of notes fanned out before him on the coffee table.

“No, _really_ , hyung. I used to joke about it before now but I genuinely think he’s planning something.”

“You said the same thing when you glued all the pages of his favourite Murakami book together and all he did was dye your hair neon orange. Looking like a traffic cone for two weeks is hardly _murder_.”

Mingyu sniffs dismissively. He’s sitting cross-legged on the couch behind Jeonghan, carding his fingers lightly though Jeonghan’s silver-blond hair. Seungcheol _may_ or may not have mentioned having to work late for the fourth night in a row this week, and Mingyu having a rare, free evening with nothing to do – and desperately needing an excuse to stay away from the dorm for one night of peace – had asked Jeonghan if he wanted to hang out.

He’d cooked while Jeonghan told him about his day at work, his annoying, nosy co-workers and fellow teachers but also the adorable first-graders and how much they seemed to love him. _Goblin_ re-runs are playing in the background while Jeonghan goes over some of his lesson plans for next week and Mingyu lazes on the couch, playing with Jeonghan’s hair. 

“I think he’s trying to _poison_ me,” Mingyu hisses under his breath, a manic tinge to the conspiratorial hush of his voice.

“What do you mean?”

“He keeps… buying me _snacks_. And — and offering to take me out for meals.”  
“You’re right,” Jeonghan drawls, crossing something out on the page before him. “How downright _diabolical_ of him to treat a dongsaeng to a free meal.” 

“It’s not _just_ a meal. It’s — he wants me to _owe_ him, hyung. And every time I say yes I slip further and further into his clutches. Like a hell demon offering me a limitless supply of convenience store snacks in exchange for my soul.” 

“Maybe, and here’s a thought, he’s just being nice.”

“Nice? _Nice?!_ This is Jeon Wonwoo we’re talking about. The same man who refused to talk to Soonyoung-hyung for a whole month because he _accidentally_ downloaded a couple viruses onto his laptop while trying to torrent _Cars 3_.” 

“Have you ever considered this might be his way of trying?” Jeonghan turns, and the motion almost makes Mingyu lose his place in the braid he’s making. “You’re the one who’s always complaining that if you were on fire and he had a glass of water, he’d drink it. Maybe the snacks are the glass of water.”

Mingyu tuts, turning Jeonghan’s jaw back to face the front with a gentle nudge of his hand.

“The snacks are _not_ the glass of water. He _wants_ me to be indebted to him.” Mingyu crosses the last section of the braid over the other, tugging it straight as he secures it with the hair tie around his wrist.

“I think you’re blowing things out of proportion.” Jeonghan settles back against the bottom of couch, propping up an elbow on top of Mingyu’s thigh. 

“ _Maybe so._ But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s acting _extremely_ suspicious.”

“Oh?” Jeonghan’s cocks his head slowly, gaze sliding sidelong to meet Mingyu’s in a way that’s eerily reminiscent of a big cat in the savannah eyeing its prey. “Funny. Must be something in the air then because he’s not the only one acting _suspicious_.”

His eyes flicker down and to the left, deliberately lingering on somewhere to the side of Mingyu’s throat. Mingyu glances down, panic leaping into his throat the moment he sees the red-purple staining his skin, peaking out from the edge of his shirt. _Curse his love for low-collared shirts._ It's what he deserves dressing like a glorified Instagram thot. 

Fighting the blush on his cheeks that’s threatening to spread to his neck, too, Mingyu slams a hand against his throat, clearing his throat with a hacking sound that couldn’t convince an eighty-year-old ahjumma he’s not hiding anything.

“Bees,” Mingyu stutters, because the devil works harder but his last brain cell works harder. “Lots of bees in this season, you know. Especially around the university. I was – stung! _That’s._ That’s what this is.”

“Bees.” Jeonghan echoes, mouth twitching like he can see right through Mingyu to the next ten years of stupidity that’ll define his life.

“Yep.” Fuck it, that’s what he’s sticking with. 

“Well, then.” Jeonghan collects all the papers on table and shuffles them into a neat pile in front of him before straightening to his feet. “Be sure to tell your bee about Seungcheol and I’s housewarming party. I expect you both on your best behaviour.”

“I’m _always_ on my best behaviour,” Mingyu protests. “It’s not my fault he — ” He cuts himself off, eyes going comically wide as he realises his mistake, too late.

Jeonghan’s expression remains perfectly neutral, but his eyes are twinkling with laughter. “ _Honey_ , you’re going to need to work on that cover story if you want anyone to actually buy your _Bee Movie_ bullshit.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

Mingyu is determined — _nay_ , dead _set_ , on getting his revenge.

Wonwoo might not be _intentionally_ provoking Mingyu or stirring up old arguments for the sake of arguing anymore but he’s certainly up to something. Mingyu doesn’t care what it is, or why he’s doing it, only that he gets his chance to even the playing field.

Four days later, the moment hits him out of sheer, unforeseen serendipity. Wonwoo’s taking a break from his studying – one that’s gone on a little too long if you ask Mingyu, but Wonwoo never does – and has been sitting at his computer gaming with his friends. As always, it’s loud and infuriatingly disruptive. Mingyu wants to storm over to his side of the room and yank his computer cord out of the wall, something he’s actually done before on several occasions.  

In fact, he’s tried nearly everything in the book. From hacking Wonwoo’s laptop to turn every _lol_ into _fuck me, daddy_ , to switching around all the keys on his keyboard, to signing up Wonwoo’s email to every outdated cat meme mailing list from the early 2000s Mingyu could find on the Internet.

 _Nothing_ has ever stuck. Wonwoo’s ability to shut off the world around him and immerse himself into his gaming is unparalleled.

One time Mingyu danced around the room singing Heart Attack at the top of his lungs to see if Wonwoo would notice and he didn’t move an inch.

Gritting his teeth, Mingyu gets to his feet and stalks over to Wonwoo and taps insistently on his shoulder. He gestures at his ears, face twisted in a scowl. Wonwoo ducks his head, at the very least having the decency to look apologetic and presses a finger to his lips in understanding. Mingyu nods, emboldened by his self-righteousness before going back to his own desk. 

It takes Wonwoo fifteen minutes max to reach an unbearable volume again and this time Mingyu spins him around in his seat. 

“ _Wonwoo_ ,” Mingyu hisses, when Wonwoo sheepishly nudges his headphones down to hear him speak. “If I have to hear your voice yelling“ _beside, beside, ahhh, kill him”_  one more time I am going to lose my _fucking_ mind.”

“Sorry,” Wonwoo mutters, shoulders lifting slightly in his attempt to make himself seem smaller, more contrite.

Fuck his remorse, Mingyu thinks viciously. He’s had _enough_.

They go through the whole song-and-dance again, third time _not_ a charm, and Mingyu _snaps_. He’s about to do something drastic, and probably disproportionately melodramatic when an idea strikes like lightning, searing through his mind in a flash of white-hot brilliance.

This time, when he yanks at Wonwoo’s desk chair, he pulls him from his desk until there’s enough space for Mingyu to fit underneath his desk. Wonwoo watches him fold himself into the space in bewilderment, and he’s about to open his mouth to say something or demand an explanation when his gaze jolts back up to his screen and he’s launching back into his game again.

For several long seconds there kneeling in the tiny space beneath Wonwoo’s desk, Mingyu feels completely, and utterly stupid. And then Wonwoo barks out a curse, loud and urgent and heedless of Mingyu’s need for quiet, and Mingyu’s resolve settles into a placid calm.

He places his hand on Wonwoo’s knee, brushing softly up across the clothed fabric of his lower thigh. Wonwoo jerks, _startled_ , but there’s no other reaction. His focus is still fixed on whatever carnage is playing out on-screen. Mingyu settles his other hand on Wonwoo’s other thigh, running it up higher this time, to graze the inside of Wonwoo’s thigh before pulling back. It’s a rhythm of tease and insinuation, his palms sliding softly along Wonwoo’s thighs, thumbs brushing at the places where thigh meets hip. 

Wonwoo mutters something to one of his gamer friends, and Mingyu takes this opportunity to brush his hand across Wonwoo’s crotch, a light, barely there graze of his palm across his clothed cock. It’s all too gratifying to find Wonwoo half-hard, and it’s enough to send a thrill of impulse and satisfaction through him.

Mingyu strokes his hands back to the safety of Wonwoo’s thighs, rubbing in soft circles to distract him from the momentary shock, and then goes back in again, curving his palm around Wonwoo this time. His fingers curl around the outline of Wonwoo, hot and hardening beneath his palm.

Somewhere above him, Wonwoo cuts himself off with a muffled choking sound. 

A smile tucks itself into the corners of Mingyu’s mouth, and he tightens his grip, stroking as he shifts his grip slightly around Wonwoo.

“ _Shit._ Wait — I have to. Deal with something. Give me five seconds.”

Wonwoo’s hand shoots out to seize Mingyu’s wrist, yanking it away from him as he pulls back from the desk, his face lit up with fury, and disbelief – but most importantly, and visible only by virtue of Mingyu’s keen discernment, _arousal_.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” Wonwoo snaps.

“Getting creative.” Mingyu shrugs. His shoulders barely have the room to move in the confined space he’s in. All he manages to do is to make himself curl smaller.

“What the hell does that even mean?” 

“You won’t shut up when I ask you nicely. This is me _not asking_.” And okay, _yeah_ , Mingyu will admit it doesn’t make much sense out loud. Whatever. This isn’t about making _sense_ , it’s about getting even.

“What the fuck, Mingyu,” Wonwoo hisses. “You’re just going to — ah, _shit_.” Again, his attention flickers right back to the screen, and he unmutes the game, launching into a rapid-fire exchange with some equally loud and equally irritating gamers.

Mingyu lets him be lulled into a false sense of security, holding back for a moment until Wonwoo is fully absorbed into his game again. And then he curves close enough to Wonwoo’s stomach to smell the detergent on his clothes, and lifts the hem of his shirt to kiss at the arch of a hipbone.

Wonwoo shoots up immediately, his back going ram-rod straight, and Mingyu has to suppress a laugh. He flattens his palm across the base of Wonwoo’s stomach, holding his shirt in place where it’s ridden up to reveal a strip of skin. Mingyu presses another kiss against his hip, and then another closer to his waistband, connecting both with his tongue as he licks a line of heat against Wonwoo’s exposed skin.

He hears Wonwoo suck in a breath, and sinks his teeth slightly into Wonwoo’s skin just to feel him tremble. He rubs his thumb over Wonwoo’s hip, tracing the shape of it before kissing a trail of kisses along its edge. When he bites down, _harder_ , Wonwoo arches into it, cutting himself off mid-sentence with a noise that rumbles from the middle of his throat. 

“Yeah, _yeah_ , I heard you. Game was just — _lagging_ or something,” Wonwoo grits out.

Mingyu skims his hand down Wonwoo’s stomach, over the outline of lean muscle, and slips it beneath the waistband of Wonwoo’s track pants, beneath his boxers. Even with just a graze of his fingertips, Wonwoo tenses beneath him, muscles going taut and rigid as he presses back against his chair. Mingyu loves this part of the seduction, the prelude to foreplay steeped in the adrenaline and power of driving someone insane with just the touch of your hand.

He curls his fingers around Wonwoo’s cock, feeling him harden even more as he brings his hand down to the tip of him and back up again. Without pausing to give Wonwoo a moment to breathe, Mingyu lowers his head and presses his mouth to Wonwoo’s cock over the layers of fabric. He licks and mouths over the length of him, stroking him through his pants.

It’s entertaining, feeling Wonwoo tense and squirm in reaction to him, but Mingyu isn’t going to stop for anything less than watching him bend until he _breaks_. Until he comes apart under his hands, in his mouth, shaking and trembling and struggling not to moan his name. He slips a hand beneath Wonwoo’s pants and tugs him loose from his pants. He spits into his hand, and then wraps it around Wonwoo, stroking it one smooth, downwards motion.

“F — _fuck_. No. _Behind_ , fuck. _You_ pay attention, asshole.” 

Mingyu takes that as encouragement, leaning forwards to seal his lips around the head of Wonwoo’s cock.

Wonwoo chokes softly, and Mingyu pumps his hand around the base of his cock as he sucks, tightening his mouth around Wonwoo. He pulls back, lapping at the tip of his cock, teasing the slit with soft, lingering strokes, and then curling his tongue around the head, tracing the thick vein that travels down the side of Wonwoo’s cock.

Mingyu is, to put it simply, a _master_ at sucking cock. Not to grandstand or gloat, but he’s sucked his fair share of cock and he’s never come away with anyway but gasping, trembling praise and variations of his name in shouts or song. It’s the sheer _enthusiasm_ he puts into it, the energy and eagerness he approaches everything in life with drilled down to base instinct, a relentless willingness to please. And sure, his end goal here might still be to _destroy Wonwoo_ , but only with the intention of reducing him to utter abandon.

He takes Wonwoo deeper into his mouth, and the moment he does there are suddenly fingers tightening in his hair, yanking urgently at his scalp. Mingyu pauses, eyes flickering upwards to see Wonwoo staring down at him, face pinched in panic, bewilderment. Through his lashes, Mingyu can see the traces of arousal writ wide across Wonwoo’s face, the slight dilation of his pupils beneath the rims of his glasses, the tinge of pink to his cheeks. He waits, relaxing his jaw, eyes locked on Wonwoo’s, daring him to pull away. 

Wonwoo clenches his jaw, and breaks the eye contact, tearing his eyes away to the screen above Mingyu, his hand, however, tightens in his hair. Mingyu smiles, triumph blooming hot and exhilarating in his chest, and he swallows Wonwoo down as far as he can take him without choking.

“H — _hey_ , wait. I need back-up. C’mon, _cmon_ — ”

Mingyu smooths his other hand up along the plane of Wonwoo’s stomach, flattening across his abs as he pulls back, bobbing his head. He hears Wonwoo force a harsh exhale out through his teeth. Mingyu hums around his cock, taking him back down into his mouth. He hums slightly, the sound rippling softly through his throat and Wonwoo’s fingers grip harder against his hair. Mingyu’s still learning what Wonwoo likes, what Wonwoo responds to, but he’s a fast learner, and it doesn’t take him long to realise that dragging his tongue down against the underside of Wonwoo while stroking at his cock will make his hips twitch, and a broken noise loosen from his throat.

He sucks Wonwoo’s cock until it brushes up against the back of his throat, until he feels the tensing of his gag reflex, bobbing his head and pumping at Wonwoo with his free hand. The rhythm he sets is fast, _filthy_ – this is, after all, a punishment. Wonwoo is only supposed to derive as much pleasure from it as it takes to fall apart. Each stroke brings Wonwoo closer and closer to the edge and he starts talking less and less, his breath coming in harsh, unsteady gasps of air when he isn’t forcing back moans and cut-off sounds.

Mingyu relishes in each sound he draws from Wonwoo, provoking them with a soft groan of his own around Wonwoo, sending the vibrations humming around Wonwoo’s cock.

“ _Mingyu_ , fuck — you — ”

He brushes his fingers down to curl around Wonwoo’s balls, and then bends to suck softly at them too, tonguing at the skin on the inside of his thighs. He bites down slightly, just to hear Wonwoo inhale sharply. 

When he moves to suck at the head of Wonwoo’s cock again, light kitten licks against the bright saliva-slicked skin, Wonwoo yanks at his hair in warning, or desperation.

“   _Gyu_.”

Mingyu answers by taking his cock into his mouth again, and sucking him down into his throat as far as he’ll go. He can tell, judging by Wonwoo’s reaction, hips jerking helplessly towards his face, and the low, strung-out sound of his voice, what Wonwoo had been about to say. He works his throat around Wonwoo, bobbing up and down, and sucking hard until he feels Wonwoo arch, hand curling into a fist in his hair and pulling so hard Mingyu nearly gasps from it.

“Fuck, _fuck_ ,” Wonwoo curses, breathless, voice grating raw and worn-down. “ _Mingyu._ ”

Mingyu pulls back so there’s no urge to choke, sucking softly at the midway point, stroking at Wonwoo’s cock with his hand. He draws his tongue over the tip of Wonwoo’s cock, and then Wonwoo lets out a low exhale of “ _Fuck_ ”, and comes in Mingyu’s mouth. Mingyu swallows around him, swallows it all down, and only pulls back when he’s sure there isn’t any more. 

He’s hard, harder than he can remember being just from sucking someone off alone, but he ignores it, shoving Wonwoo’s chair back so he can climb to his feet.

He leans in towards Wonwoo, gaze passing over the way Wonwoo flinching back in surprise to his microphone. He presses at the speaker button, dipping down so they can hear him loud and clear. 

“ _Have a fun game, boys._ ”

And then he locks eyes with Wonwoo, staring him down with a hard, victorious smile, before turning and leaving him, wrecked, panting, with his pants still halfway down his ankles.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Mingyu doesn’t expect to find Wonwoo home when he comes back from the gym. He’s sweaty, dishevelled and in dire need of a shower, but the sight of Wonwoo on the verge of a nap, just awake enough to glance up when Mingyu comes in stops him in his tracks. The sound of Mingyu closing the door behind him and rustling around as he dumps his gym bag by the door and goes to refill his water bottle seems to wake Wonwoo from his half-asleep state. 

Wonwoo blinks lazily, lifting his hand to rub at his eyes. The edge of his sleeve brushes against his knuckles, the sweater draping over his wrists like paws, and Mingyu’s heart clenches. He has a sudden and wild urge to burn every oversized piece of clothing Wonwoo owns. 

“Hey,” Mingyu says tentatively, and it’s passably casual enough to sound normal.

It’s been strange, this charade they’ve put on that everything above the surface is back to normal now when nothing is and will ever be remotely the same again.

Still, it doesn’t mean Mingyu can’t _try_ to keep things as civil and ordinary as possible when they’re not busy trying to rip each other’s clothes off. 

Wonwoo looks at him from under his lashes with an expression that's eerily reminiscent of a stray cat that used to roam their neighbourhood back at home. A look that seems to speak a dozen different things, none of which Mingyu understands. Wonwoo yawns then, eye contact broken as he arches his head back.

“Hey.” Well, that’s something, right? 

Mingyu pads over to his bed, tossing the towel slung around his neck onto his chair and reaching for his water bottle to take a drink, gulping down a third of the bottle in one go. He and Seokmin have a standing date every fortnight, where for two hours an afternoon they spar and kick box and Mingyu exhausts himself until he can barely stand.

If you knew Seokmin for his sunny attitude and infectious smile you wouldn’t think he’d make much of a boxing partner but the man has a _wicked_ right hook. Mingyu’s been nearly socked in the eye a few too many times because he wasn’t paying enough attention to ever make the mistake of underestimating Seokmin simply because he wouldn’t hurt a fly off the practice mats.

Mingyu swallows and lets up with a small gasp of relief, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. When he looks up, he finds Wonwoo looking at him strangely. A different kind of strange from before. Their beds lie parallel to each other on opposite sides of a very small room, it’s only natural that Mingyu happens to sit right in the general radius of Wonwoo’s line of sight. But Wonwoo’s face, still and strained, oddly tense tugs at something sharp and hot in the base of Mingyu’s stomach. 

The moment Wonwoo realises that Mingyu’s noticed him looking his gaze slants sharply away, throat tightening as he gulps, _visibly flustering_.

Mingyu stares in dumbfounded amazement. He knows he’s good-looking, and tall, and he works out for largely superficial reasons, yet it’d never… occurred to him that Wonwoo might have noticed. He looks over at Wonwoo who is very determinedly ignoring his entire existence, and straightens, setting his water bottle down with a soft thunk on his desk that’s deafening amidst the soundless tension hanging suspended in the air.

“Hyung,” Mingyu says softly, and when he takes a step closer towards Wonwoo, Wonwoo shifts, revealing the branded logo on the side of the sweater. Mingyu’s mouth twitches, a smile threatening to spill across his face.

“Why are you wearing my sweater?”

Wonwoo lets out a noise of disagreement, folding his arms stiffly across his chest. “I’m not. Why I would wear one of _your_ sweaters?”

“ _Hyung._ ” The lilt in his voice is overtly low, teasing, and Mingyu crosses the few feet in between their beds until his thigh is nearly brushing up against Wonwoo’s knee from where it’s dangling over the edge. 

“You don’t have to lie.” Mingyu’s eyes crinkle as he gazes down at Wonwoo, watching him struggle to come up with a reason, or a sound defence. “I know it’s mine.”

Wonwoo refuses to look him in the eye, because Mingyu’s caught him red-handed or because he can’t handle the sight of Mingyu post-workout in nothing but his singlet, Mingyu isn’t entirely sure.

Slowly, with a weight to every shift and movement of his body that only grows heavier the closer he gets, Mingyu places one hand on the pillow right beside Wonwoo’s head, bending until he’s close enough to kiss him. He glances down at the last second, and pokes his finger at the brand name printed onto the sweater.

“Definitely mine.” A muscle in Wonwoo’s jaw tenses, as if he’s fighting the flush on his cheeks. Mingyu takes his time drinking in every detail: the slight widening of his eyes, the parting of his lips, full and softly bitten — by Wonwoo’s standards, all but _stricken_. 

He shifts to press his other hand against the bed, and now he’s hovering over Wonwoo, the muscles of his arms flexing in a way that isn’t exactly incidental. The space between them is strung with heat, an unbearable gravity, or maybe that’s just Wonwoo and the affect he’s always had on Mingyu. The gravitational pull of him as irresistible as the moon and the tides, the way the night wraps around the light of the stars.

Mingyu wants to kiss him so much it hurts. He wants to touch him, to wring pleasure from him in ways no one else ever has, to make him feel so good, so _unbelievably_ good he’ll never want him to stop.

“Mingyu,” Wonwoo murmurs, the depths of his voice making Mingyu’s breath catch in his throat, his voice like gravel and velvet all at once. “ _Get off me._ ” 

Mingyu’s expression wavers as he draws back a little, instinctively, his eyes betraying everything he feels the moment he feels it. He hardens his face, unrelenting.

“I want my sweater back.”

“ _Mingyu_.” And Mingyu hates the sound of his name on Wonwoo’s lips. Hates how it makes his heart jump in his ribs, how his mind chases after the sound of it, the syllables shaped on his tongue.

Mingyu wants to kiss the shape of his name from Wonwoo’s mouth, to seize back the power Wonwoo holds over him with just the whisper of his name.

Wonwoo’s eyes flicker to Mingyu’s lips, and it’s like a spark of electricity igniting in him, fear and desire lighting up his eyes in the silent, secret way Mingyu has always been able to read him in the most important moments. Mingyu lowers himself closer, close enough to breathe in and feel only Wonwoo on his lips, in his head, in the thundering beat of his pulse.

“ _What are you so afraid of, hyung?_ ”

Wonwoo parts his lips, lets out a sharp, soft exhale, and Mingyu would give anything to soothe the panic and alarm hitching at his breath, the uneven rise and fall of his chest. His hand itches to reach for Wonwoo’s, to touch him in a way that will make him understand. Because Mingyu has never _just_ wanted Wonwoo. His favourite sound in the world is Wonwoo’s laugh, he counts stars and waits for when the night sky is clear enough to see the moon because Jeon Wonwoo is a secret, bona fide romantic with a soft spot for Japanese literature. He worries about when Wonwoo eats, and when he sleeps, and if he’s getting enough rest and if he’s wearing enough clothes because he has terrible circulation and gets colder than anyone Mingyu’s ever known.

And maybe that makes Mingyu a hypocrite. Because being afraid of himself is all he’s ever known, and falling in love with your best friend is the one and only stupidest, most inevitable fear he’s ever had that really mattered. 

Wonwoo looks at him like he knows, like he sees right through him, the way he always has, and Mingyu’s heartbeat falters unsteadily in his chest. It makes Wonwoo's face soften, then — or perhaps there's no correlation at all; just cause and effect strung together in Mingyu's mind by projection and sheer desire for it to be fact — and he’s lifting a hand to curl it around Mingyu’s face, cupping his jaw with his fingers. 

Mingyu can’t breathe, can’t _think_ , can’t do anything else but stare unblinkingly into Wonwoo’s eyes as he runs his thumb across his cheek. Mingyu’s torn between the urge to melt, to sink into his touch, and staying exactly where he is, motionless, lest any sudden movement snaps Wonwoo out of this fleeting lapse of rationality. Wonwoo doesn’t say anything but there’s a peace, almost a quiet resignation, to the set of his face that Mingyu wants to kiss the shadow of from his lips. He leans in, his head softly tilting as he closes the distance between them.

The sound of his phone going off in his pocket makes him flinch. And just like that, Wonwoo isn’t touching him anymore, because he's snapping back into himself and the impenetrable wall between the rest of him and the world is slamming shut on Mingyu’s face. Mingyu shoves his hand into the pocket of his pants, scrambling back helplessly, eyes flickering between Wonwoo and his phone.

“I — _shit_ , I have to get this.” His pulse stumbles and trips over itself as he backs up the door, the edge of desperation on his face painfully obvious.

 _Don’t go anywhere_ , Mingyu wishes he could say. _Please._

But the moment’s broken, and even if he’d let the call go to voicemail, even if he’d never picked up, Wonwoo would still be gone.

The ache in his chest feels like a hand wrapped around his heart, a fist clenched tight. His skin still feels warm from where Wonwoo had taken his face into his hands, the ghost of his breath lingering on his mouth from where Wonwoo had been about to kiss him. If he could, he’d take Wonwoo’s hands into his and demand to know _why_ , why he’d looked at him like that, with defeat, and the sadness of surrender. He’s terrified that Wonwoo knows, that every time Mingyu looks at him, he _knows_ , and that’s what makes him so afraid.

This thing between them is so fragile and volatile at all once; it’s _dangerous_ , and reckless, and Mingyu doesn’t know how much longer he can act as if all he wants from this is sex and hunger.    

The phone in his hand rings, and rings, and Mingyu would give anything to take this moment back.

 

 

\-----

 

 

The room is predictably empty when Mingyu comes back. The sweater Wonwoo had been wearing lies discarded on his bed. Mingyu moves, his feet carrying him forwards without the momentum of his permission, picking up the sweater, his fingers sinking into the soft, worn fabric as he tentatively lifts it to his face.

The traces of him are all but gone. It smells like pine and the pages of old books, and beneath that, something sweeter, the smell of jasmine and lily-scented shampoo.

It smells like _Wonwoo_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry this took a little longer to update!! thank you so much for all the kudos, comments, and support. @ everyone who's ever commented or sent me cc's about this fic, i love you and i hope you enjoyed the chapter.
> 
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/bisexualgyu) / [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/gyuwu).


	6. appear weak when you are strong, strong when you are weak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day, in some distant point in the future if they’re still doing this, and Wonwoo still looks at him with the same hunger veiled beneath his masks and artifice, Mingyu will take his time with him. He’ll kiss him like he means to unwind him, unravel him, layer by layer until he’s left with nothing but skin, the rawness of him he works so hard to hide laid bare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for slurs, bit of graphic violence, and homophobia.

Mingyu sees the world in colour, light, and contrast, paints people and moods and feelings in the spectrum of the colour wheel in his mind. Summer-drenched afternoons like these when the heat has sunk past the midday sun are indigo blue, tinged with the lazy warmth of yellow-gold sunlight and the orange of Van Gogh’s sunflowers, Klimt’s golden kiss.

Minghao, standing in the glow of golden hour, studying his canvas with an intensity only art can draw out of him, is violet, the colour of royalty, the wine-dark burgundy of pinot noir. The striking red of graffiti splattered like an act of rebellion on a street corner, of red neon lights and slow shutter speeds. The endless possibility of art being anything, anywhere, stretching out into the infinite dark. 

Hansol is the green of nature left to its own devices, an overgrown garden spilling wild and unruly beyond its borders, the colour of light hitting a patch of open forest through the canopies, a place where no human has ever been. He’s blue, the endless blue of skies filled with the dreamy easiness of clouds slowly drifting by, the blue of morning dew with the taste of spring coming in the air.

Sorrow, defeat, anger, abandon all have colours, associations, colour palettes that streak and blur with the thick permanence of oil paints or the fleeting blink of watercolours bleeding into paper. Happiness has no specific colour. It’s one of those things Mingyu’s been chasing after his entire life, as an artist, as a young twenty-something year old with dreams so big he can’t sleep at night, dreams so big they terrify him. 

For Mingyu, happiness has always been a kaleidoscope: the technicolour flicker of butterfly wings in his stomach. The off-white of pages turning, pale fingers twining through his, curling around his wrist; a quicksilver smile and dark eyes brimming with warmth and mischief. The blue of the ocean in all its permutations, the undiscovered depths dipped in midnight and pitch-black, but also the liquid fire of sundown, when the sun sets the horizon on fire and kisses the water scarlet and gold, amber and ultramarine.

Everything he puts to paper bears traces of the ocean now. He can’t remember a time before he made art when water imagery meant anything to him, but it’s all he can paint now. 

He picks his way around the scattered materials on the ground, strewn in both calculated and artless chaos around their mugs and plastic cups filled with water, jammed to the brim with soaking paintbrushes.

Coming to a standstill beside Hansol, he tilts his head to take in Hansol’s abstract rendering of what appears to be a cat.

“Looks good, Hansol-ah.” Mingyu smiles, eyes crinkling as he gestures at the top half of the painting. “I like the ears. It’s Dodam, right?”

“Mm, yeah. I miss her, and like, art is permanent, y’know. I thought it would be a nice way to remember her. I can finally give mom and dad something to hang up on our walls at home that isn’t a finger painting from when I was five.” 

Mingyu’s expression softens and he reaches over to ruffle Hansol’s hair. “She would’ve loved it.”

Hansol, despite not being a fine arts student, has had a standing invitation to join Mingyu and Minghao’s art sessions since they first met. He’s never without his headphones tucked around his neck, or on his head blasting hip hop or American RnB, but when he’s here sharing in Mingyu and Minghao’s sacred space, he channels their quiet calm and artistic sanctity effortlessly.

Mingyu spends a few more minutes quietly watching Hansol colour Dodam’s nose in a bright purple, and then tiptoes carefully around the room comically slowly to where Minghao is by the window of the studio.

If Mingyu veers Picasso and Matisse on the abstract impressionist side of modern art, Minghao is all Pollock and Miró. 

His latest work is something dark and saturnine, the splashes of vibrance violent and stark. It’s jarringly bleaker then anything Minghao’s painted in a long time. But that’s the one and only rule about art club: _you don’t talk about art club_. You don’t talk about what people spill out onto their canvases, and you don’t talk about what’s said before, during, or after.

Mingyu honours the rule, but it doesn’t stop him from tucking his chin over Minghao’s shoulder where he’s standing and brooding in the direction of his art.

“I thought you said too much unintentional red in the one work was borderline Mondrian, and as much as we appreciate De Stijl, no one can pull off De Stijl except Mondrian.”

Minghao scoffs, uncrossing and re-crossing his arms, a paintbrush dangling from between his fingertips like a Parisian ingénue’s cigarette. “When did I say that? Clearly the me that said that was smoking the shit kind of crack. You can _never_ have too much red.”

Mingyu hums, winding an arm nonchalantly around Minghao’s slim waist. “The blue though, it’s really pretty against the red and the black.”

Minghao makes a noncommittal noise, not moving but not shoving Mingyu away either. Mingyu beams, nuzzling his face into the back of Minghao’s hair with a chuckle at nothing in particular, a noise evoked by simple contentment. That’s what these art club meetings are for – a place to escape to when the whole world is too much and not enough, a _sanctuary_ from reality, where art and the sheer act of creation can turn his whole week from everyday mediocrity to something spectacular.

He lets Minghao go, stepping back cautiously around his paints and returns to his own station. The canvas before him is half-finished. It’s chaotic and unsure in a way his life drawing professor would tut and shake her head at, declaring it _unfocused_. 

 _Art can be chaos, can be confusion_ , she’d say, _but it cannot lack_ heart. If your heart is elsewhere, your art will wander without direction. 

It doesn’t help that Mingyu tends to paint people. His works of late have been either lovers entwined in some snarled, tangled mess, or solitary figures, broken and melancholy. The yellow limning the profile of this new work is a sickly one, a yellow that conjures sickness and disquiet, restlessness burrowed deep beneath skin. 

Mingyu grabs a paintbrush and tubes of red and blue, determined to mix something a little gentler. The quiet that envelops them is comforting, like sitting by a campfire and listening to the crackle and spit of the flames and the movement of the stars rather than burying such a rare peace in meaningless conversation. For someone who seems to revel in noise and energy, Mingyu is perfectly at ease in moments like this – he _savours_ it, the way you would a steaming cup of homemade hot chocolate. 

They paint, losing themselves in the process, going wherever their art takes them. It’s a catharsis, and a self-exploration. Mingyu makes art because _it’s what he does_ , it’s who he is, but also because he finds pieces of himself in his art that he didn’t recognise before all the time. 

“Gyu,” Minghao says, minutes or hours later. “How’s your life drawing assignment going, by the way?”

Mingyu winces, exhaling with a sigh as he hunches over on his stool. Minghao took the class last semester and he’s been warning him for weeks to organise an appointment with a model before he’s down to the last-minute desperation of scrambling for help.

“Uh…” Mingyu bites his lip. “ _About that…_ ”

“You’ll be fine, hyung.” Hansol says sagely, with a tone of age-old wisdom belying his years, and despite knowing nothing whatsoever about the context. “Everything happens for a reason.” 

“Yeah, except isn’t it due right before mid-semester break? And let me guess, you haven’t found a model yet.”

“ _Well!_ I was going to. I didn’t forget, I’ve just…”

“Been too busy fucking around with Wonwoo in your psychosexual stand-off.”

Hansol’s head jerks up with wide eyes. “Oh, _bro_ , that’s still a thing?”

“My sweet, summer child,” Minghao drawls. “It’s never _not_ been a thing.”

“Shut up! It’s not a psychosex-whatever! That makes it sound weird and fucked-up and it’s –– okay, _fine_ , it is exactly that but that’s irrelevant to the topic at hand, and I’m _still_ screwed for this assignment.” 

Minghao purses his lips, dipping his paintbrush into his water with a pensive look. “Why don’t you just ask Wonwoo?”

Mingyu chokes, nearly falling off his chair with the momentum of his outrage when he flies up onto his feet, arm flailing. “What do you mean “Why don’t I just ask Wonwoo?” Have you been listening to anything I’ve said for the past — _two years_?” 

A streak of blue paint goes flying from the end of his brush and Hansol follows its trajectory with his eyes, gleeful look on his face as it splatters across the newspapered ground. 

“Yes, he’s _the Enemy_ ; the reason why the ‘Not today, Satan’ meme was invented; the devil works hard but Jeon Wonwoo works harder, et cetera, repeat _ad infinitum_. But you’re desperate, aren’t you? Deadline’s in like, a week.”

“Not desperate enough to ask _him_.” Mingyu bites out viciously, hand clenching tight around his paintbrush.

He and Wonwoo are – _sex friends_. Nowhere in the precarious relationship status of ‘former childhood friends turned mortal enemies turned casual sex friends who are really more like sex acquaintances’ does any sort of ‘real’ friendship factor into their current dynamic. Asking Wonwoo a favour like this, being _indebted_ to him, is exactly the kind of thing that falls into the ‘strings’ part of no strings attached.

“You could make it sexy.” Hansol suggests, as if he’s casually pointing out the time, and not insinuating Mingyu roleplay with Wonwoo as Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet in their award-winning epic romance-disaster film. “Ask him if you can draw him like one of your French girls.”

Mingyu goes bright red in the face. Minghao whips his head towards Hansol and promptly bursts out into delighted laughter. 

“ _Holy shit_ , that’s brilliant. Mingyu, Hansol is a genius, and you owe him your life.”

“Do you want me to _die_? I would literally die. Wonwoo would kill me on the spot.”

“You don’t know that, maybe he’d be into it. _Titanic_ is a classic, dude. It gave us _young Leonardo Dicaprio_.”

“As if a single human person on this miserable rock we call Earth has ever said the words “Can I draw you like one of my French girls?” and not spontaneously combusted from sheer humiliation. He’d probably dump me on the spot from making him cringe so hard.”

“Dump you, huh?” Minghao’s expression darkens slyly. “Thought you two idiots weren’t _dating_.”

“ _Shut. Up._ You know. What I mean,” Mingyu grits out. “Anyway, I’m not doing it. I am neither that gay, nor that desperate.”

“Well.” Minghao says, dabbing at his palette and turning back to his canvas. “Guess you’re fucked, then.” 

“Thanks, Minghao,” Mingyu replies, voice dripping steely sarcasm. “I don’t know where I’d be without your unconditional kindness and support.”

“Aw, baby, you know I’m always here to tell you exactly what you need to hear.”

“Please die.” 

Minghao turns, waiting until he catches Mingyu’s eyes, and winks at him. Mingyu almost breaks his paintbrush in half. _Almost._ There’s a big glass jar in the studio they keep in memoriam of all the paintbrushes he’s snapped over the years, both accidentally and not. When they fill up the entire jar Mingyu has to take Minghao and Hansol out for an unlimited night’s worth of meat. His wallet is shaking at the mere thought of it. 

 _Paint him like one of my French girls_ , Mingyu thinks venomously. Ridiculous. He’d have to be insane to ask Wonwoo something like that.

 

 

\-----

 

 

It’s not common knowledge amongst most of Mingyu’s casual acquaintances, or even some of his newer university friends, that he’s spent the better part of his life pining, hating, and then pining some more after the one person.

He’s dated and had short-lived flings, minor crushes that lasted for one, summer-sweetened, lust-dazed week. He’s dated girls _and_ boys –– never for more than a few months at a time, but all of them ended on generally good terms. Call it the highest of double standards, but Mingyu can’t stand the idea of someone out there actively hating him for something he could so easily smooth over. 

Some of his girlfriends and boyfriends were people from his department, or friends of friends that had harboured small crushes on him, and confessed to him.

Mingyu has dated nearly half of the people who confessed to him, and the rest — well, he’s had a lot of practice learning how to let someone down easy. There’s nothing crueller than having someone you idolise, someone you practically _worship_ , cut you down like they mean nothing to you. It takes so little effort, and so little kindness, not to humiliate someone when they’re baring their heart to you. To give them closure wrapped in gentleness and an easy smile.

Confessing to someone that you like them, that _you like them so much you just couldn’t exist a moment longer in the world without telling them_ , is one of the bravest things someone could ever do. It takes courage, and guts, and a vulnerability that makes you susceptible to all sorts of heartbreak.

Mingyu’s heading back to his dorm after his Monday afternoon class with Seo Nayeon, one of the girls in his Painting II class, so he can help with some of her composition sketches for their final body of work. Despite his tendency to play the loveable fool, especially in large groups of people, Mingyu’s more aware of the people around him then they tend to realise. Nayeon is sweet, and charismatic, and Mingyu’s sure she’d make someone that isn’t him very, very happy by being their girlfriend. The crush on him Nayeon’s been harbouring for weeks now is reaching its agonising limit.

Even if it weren’t for the whole mess with Wonwoo, he isn’t looking for a relationship right now. He still has so much growing up to do, so much to achieve and want and dream, that it wouldn’t be right to throw himself into a relationship with someone who he can’t be the best possible version of himself with. 

“So, what’ve you got so far?” Mingyu asks as Nayeon sits down gingerly at Mingyu’s desk. Mingyu swings Wonwoo’s chair around to face her, figuring Wonwoo won’t mind as long as it’s back where it belongs when he’s home.

“It’s not much. I don’t even know if I’m going to stick with the concept... I’m not sure it’s good enough?” Nayeon frowns. 

“Hey,” Mingyu says, reassuringly, leaning over to give her shoulder a soft shake. “Don’t say that. First drafts always suck. That’s why they’re first drafts.” Nayeon flushes, her eyes darting pointedly away from Mingyu, and his hand on her shoulder. Mingyu winces internally, drawing back to a safe distance.

“Anyway. Let’s look at what you’ve worked on so far, and maybe we can figure out a clearer direction for you to take your work. Sometimes a bad idea only _looks_ bad at first because you don’t know what you don’t know where to go with it.”

Nayeon lets out a small sigh, and takes out her sketchbook from her backpack. “You’re right. Thanks, Mingyu. I... I really appreciate this by the way.”

She straightens, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear in a way that Mingyu usually finds super endearing in the people he likes. He almost wishes he could make himself like Nayeon enough to make this hurt less for her.

Mingyu pulls his chair over so they can study her drawings. He takes out his own notebook so he can make suggestions, showing her his own plans and mark-ups for what he’s thinking of executing for his own final work. Everything is going well, all carefully friendly, strictly _platonic_ , until Mingyu mentions meeting up again next week if Nayeon wants to, to work on their ideas some more together. 

And maybe it’s Mingyu’s fault, because there’s this café near campus that he always goes to when he needs some extra aesthetic inspiration and mood lighting to get into the zone for his art finals. He can see now, in retrospect, how bringing that up _might_ have made his suggestion sound like more of an open-ended invitation to a very not-platonic date. 

Mingyu beams at Nayeon, standing to gather her things and help put everything back into her bag. When he glances up to tell her he’ll text her about the time, her heart-shaped face is suddenly very close, and she’s looking at him with this terrified but heart-fluttering, giddy expression. And then before Mingyu can say anything, or blurt out an apology for leading her on, or melt into the ground out of sheer embarrassment, she’s leaning in to kiss him. 

Seo Nayeon’s lips are petal-soft. She smells like vanilla and the sweetness of afternoon daydreams, and it’d be a very good kiss if not for the fact that Mingyu isn’t really kissing her back.

And because the universe hates him, _because the universe can’t stand the thought of Mingyu having a single moment of peace in his life_ , an all-too familiar voice speaks up from the far end of the room.

“Am I interrupting something?”

Mingyu stumbles back, eyes impossibly wide, horror and anguish and existential dread slamming into him with the force of a small heart attack. 

Wonwoo’s standing at the doorway, face characteristically expressionless. It sends a sharp bolt of ice-cold alarm through Mingyu that he can’t detect a single shred of emotion from him. He’s impenetrable, so far away that Mingyu might as well be looking at a stranger.

(When did he get so good at hiding himself from the world? And more importantly, _from Mingyu?_ )

“Sorry.” Wonwoo murmurs, tipping his head apologetically in Nayeon’s direction and already starting to leave. “I’ll come back later.”

“Wonwoo — ” His name tumbles out of Mingyu’s mouth, desperation making Mingyu’s voice tight and high, his face tensing with panic. “ _Wonwoo, wait!_ ”

The door shuts quietly behind Wonwoo with a light click.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Mingyu feels guilty because clearly, he’s losing his mind. _What the hell does he have to be guilty for?_  

A good fucking question. One that Mingyu doesn’t even know how to begin answering.

He goes through the five stages of denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance of grief over the death of his and Wonwoo’s ‘thing’ very quickly.

Denial lasts for one day of self-righteous disbelief, at himself _and_ Wonwoo. They’re not _boyfriends_ , and certainly not in a real relationship of any kind so there’s no excuse for Wonwoo to act like – _well_ , he didn’t really _do_ anything. Wonwoo could’ve walked in on them with their clothes off and he would’ve had the same inscrutable reaction: indifferent, _apathetic_. 

The less said about anger the better. Mingyu isn’t proud of the thoughts that cross his mind – thoughts ranging from ‘ _Why the hell_ wasn’t _he jealous_ ’ to ‘ _Bold of him to assume he’s the only person I’m seeing right now, it’s not like my life revolves around his skinny ass_ ’ to ‘ _Fuck Jeon Wonwoo and his shitty timing, what the fuck, doesn’t this bitch knock_ ’.

Bargaining involves micro-analysing to death Wonwoo’s every word and every miniscule twitch of movement from the thirty seconds he’d been in the room.

The stage of depression sets in when he realises Wonwoo hasn’t replied to any of his texts:

 

 

 **mingyu:** hey

 **mingyu:** stop leaving your contacts all over the edge of the sink or next time

 **mingyu:** i find one

 **mingyu:** i am flushing it down the toilet

 

 **mingyu:** jeon wonwoo-ssi can you FOR ONCE IN UR SAD HERMIT LIFE throw out the trash from ur instant ramyeon instead of leaving it out overnight

 **mingyu:** i’m not ur maid!!!!!!! if u want me to act like one u gotta PAY ME

 

 

None of these are texts are ones he’d consider particularly urgent, or anything that Wonwoo would normally reply to in under forty-eight hours but it’s worrying that this might be the beginning of Wonwoo freezing him out permanently.

And for _what_? All because he’d walked in on a classmate accidentally kissing Mingyu under the false presumptions that he was asking her out on a date?

Mingyu doesn’t actually reach the last stage, he _refuses_ to reach acceptance before he can confront Wonwoo and set the record straight.

It happens in a library, because where the hell else are you going to find Jeon Wonwoo on a Friday afternoon when other people are out celebrating the momentous occasion of the week finally ending and being free from the illusion of academic responsibility for two whole glorious days. 

“Listen, you jerk, I know you’ve been avoiding me.” Opening volley from Kim, a strong outing, especially for a library filled with stressed, high-strung university students.

“This is a library; I’m studying. It’s hardly my problem you never step foot in here.” Returning shot from Jeon, cutting as expected.

“That’s not the _point_. You’re mad at me.” Mingyu gets a few looks, a few frowns. Their impromptu audience has yet to decide if they’re curious, or simply annoyed. 

“Last time I checked, I’m not feeling anything in particular at you.”

Wonwoo continues typing away at his laptop, and Mingyu restrains himself from slamming it shut, hyper-aware that with his past track record and his present streak of bad luck, he’d probably break it.

“Okay, that _is_ the point. Literally. You might not be mad at me or whatever, but you’re annoyed. And you’re shutting me out. Because of — that thing the other day.”

“And what thing would that be?” Indefeasible when it comes to the defence, Jeon isn’t going to let his opponent get a word in without fighting every inch for it. 

“ _When_  — I… Me accidentally kissing Nayeon! You know what I’m talking about.” Kim stumbling here trying to maintain even footing.

Wonwoo looks up for half a second. “Oh. That.”

God, Mingyu hates him. He hates him so much. Insufferable bastard.

“ _Yes, that._ You asshole, I should be the one who’s mad that you’re mad! I didn’t _ask_ for her to kiss me. She’s had a crush on me all year, she kissed me first!”

Wonwoo doesn’t say anything for a moment, and Mingyu almost dies in the anticipation of waiting for him to answer.

“Okay.” He closes his laptop, sitting back with a yawn and stretching out his arms. Mingyu stares at him like he’s suddenly grown a second head.

“ _Okay?_ What do you mean ‘ _okay_ ’?!”

“I mean, _I’m fine_ , Mingyu. I accept your apology, and as you’d say, “or whatever”.”

Mingyu opens his mouth, closes it, hands clenching and unclenching at his side. At this point, their courtside audience has lost all interest entirely. A frustrated screech emits from his throat, and his vision blurs slightly red at the corners.

Oh, he’s definitely losing his mind.

“ _Fuck you_ , that wasn’t an apology. I was just – explaining things. Setting the record straight. So you wouldn’t be fucking mad at me for _nothing_.” 

“Okay. Well. I’m not mad at you.” Wonwoo’s eyes settle on him, his features tinged with the quiet amusement Mingyu’s come to associate with Wonwoo when he’s at his most mischievous and sarcastic.

Mingyu grits his teeth, clutching at the strap of his backpack to keep from throwing something at his stupid, smug, handsome face. 

“ _Well_ , I wouldn’t care even if you were. This was stupid. Good _bye_.” And he storms off before he can watch any more of his dignity go up in smoke and flames. 

Jeon Wonwoo: 2. Kim Mingyu: 0.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Seungcheol and Jeonghan’s housewarming party is on a Saturday night. The dress code is casual and everyone’s attendance – a point they’ve made very clear – is mandatory. The invitations have been physically printed and mailed and everything. As the first official couple of their friend group to move into an apartment that isn’t a shitty twenty square foot shoebox, it’s a genuine, real, adult achievement. 

Mingyu and Wonwoo decide to go together in a mutual decision that is both very mature and very unlike them.

They spend most of the trip via subway entrenched in the safety of their respective social media feeds. Mingyu has spent thirty-two minutes repressing the image of how Wonwoo’s pale grey coat emphasises the broadness of his shoulders, and how the navy sweater he’s wearing underneath hangs low enough to reveal the edge of his collarbones.

It’s maddening, being burdened with how attractive Wonwoo is now that there’s this – _thing_ between them. He’s always been aware of Wonwoo and his model-like stature and perfectly symmetrical face. But it’s one thing to be _aware_ , and another to have the knowledge that just beneath Wonwoo’s collar, the shape of Mingyu’s teeth lingers on his skin, bruised and pink and so tauntingly close.

When they’re getting up to leave the subway, Mingyu’s hand falls instinctively to the small of Wonwoo’s back, a subtle, thoughtless gesture to keep him from being pushed or shoved by the surge of people coming in and out through the doors. Wonwoo flicks him a sidelong glance beneath his lashes, and the tips of his ears heat.

He can feel them still tingling with embarrassment as he drops his arm, stuffing his hand into his pocket before he can do anything even more stupid, and clingy, like try to hold Wonwoo’s hand. 

Jeonghan opens the door before Mingyu can even reach the third knock, ushering them in with a whirlwind of greetings and rushing to help them out of their coats. 

“Jeonghanie-hyung, we brought you a housewarming gift!” Mingyu says, nudging Wonwoo who’s holding the bag with the meticulously wrapped and ribboned gift inside. (Mingyu’s handiwork, of course; Wonwoo had nothing to do with it but Mingyu graciously allowed him to sign his name at the bottom of the card.) Wonwoo holds out the gift and Jeonghan coos, rushing over to wrap first Wonwoo, and then Mingyu, in a warm hug.

“You shouldn’t have.” Jeonghan says magnanimously.

“The invitation literally said, ‘Gifts are welcome, and expected.’” Wonwoo, as usual, has a point. 

“It _also_ said, one per person unless attending as a couple.” Jeonghan arches a single, flawlessly shaped brow, and Mingyu knows from experience that’s the _look_ Jeonghan gives you when he’s deliberating on whether or not he wants to spare your life. Mingyu is both: a) not looking forward to cleaning up Wonwoo’s eviscerated remains from the floor once Jeonghan’s through with him, and b) completely unprepared for whatever interrogation he’s going to be unwittingly dragged into as the other half of the _not-couple_ in question.

Mingyu laughs nervously, sliding himself in between them. “That’s funny, hyung. Anyway, enjoy the gift! We’re going to get drinks. Thanks for inviting us, the house looks awesome!” And then he all but physically drags Wonwoo to the kitchen in search for alcohol before Jeonghan can stare him out of all his secrets. 

What Yoon Jeonghan can do with nothing but a calculated silence and the saccharine curve of his smile could make seasoned KGB agents cry with envy. 

Mingyu recognises most of the people in the room, through either Seungcheol or Jeonghan, so they stop every few seconds for Mingyu to say hello, catch up, and coo over the latest pictures of someone’s family dog. Wonwoo stays by his side, presumably only because he doesn’t know as many people here as Mingyu does, and because enduring Mingyu’s endless chatter is still a safer bet than being left to fade into the background noise in a house full of strangers.  

Mingyu smooths over any latent awkwardness with effortless ease, introducing Wonwoo to every person he stops to greet with an enthusiastic grin. Although Wonwoo’s naturally suited to more intimate settings and smaller crowds, he’s charming and witty, and strikingly funny if you really pay attention. It sinks bittersweet, like a straight shot of tequila singeing the insides of his throat, the realisation of how much he’s missed this. Being around Wonwoo. Not as his best friend, or closest confidante in the world, or even his sometime enemy and fuck buddy, but just — _being_. Existing in the same space as Wonwoo, standing next to him and being able to smile freely at his jokes and drink in the look on his face when he makes the people around him laugh, slow, _reverent_ , like he’s soaking in the sunlight and Wonwoo is the too-bright glare silhouetting the sun. 

The ache curls around his heart like a closed fist, a second heartbeat in his chest echoing every chuckle and grin that flickers across his face a little too bright. But Mingyu’s good at pretending. He’s had a lifetime’s worth of practice.

“Mingyu-hyung, Wonwoo-hyung, I see you two made it here in one piece.” Seungkwan toasts them irreverently from across the kitchen island when they finally make it to the other side of the apartment. There’s a mischievous smirk playing at his lips, cherubic face lit with a deviousness that makes Mingyu immediately wary. 

He makes a quick spur-of-the-moment decision that it’s better to be safe than sorry: “Seungkwanie, remember that time you borrowed Hansol’s favourite shirt he got from New York and — ” 

“I mean, of course you’re here!” Seungkwan interjects with a flourish, his signature variety show host bluster out in full force. “Let me pour my favourite hyungs a drink, c’mon.”

“ _‘Favourite hyung’_ , you only ever call me that when you need something from me.” Mingyu snorts, but doesn’t object as Seungkwan proceeds to mix up an ungodly concoction of what appears to be soju, lemonade, rum, and a juice that’s almost alarmingly pink.

Wonwoo heads to the cooler and cracks himself open a beer as Mingyu accepts the hot Barbie pink abomination Seungkwan has created, squinting at it before shrugging, thanking Seungkwan, and taking a cheerful swig.

“By the way, hyung, I think I saw a couple of Seo Nayeon’s friends earlier so you _might_ want to steer clear. Or don’t. God knows the party only starts when someone gets a drink thrown in their face.”

Mingyu chokes, hand flying up to his mouth to keep from spraying _his_ drink everywhere. “ _What?!_ ” he manages to croak out.  

“People are saying you spent all year leading this poor girl on only to reject her through a text. _I hear they’re out for blood_.” Seungkwan’s eyes glitter, gleefully shark-like at the prospect of Mingyu being made a sacrificial victim at the altar of the university’s viciously overactive rumour mill. 

“That’s — that’s such absolute _bullshit_. I didn’t, I _wouldn’t_ —” Mingyu splutters, his brain struggling to wrap itself around the enormity of his betrayal, and bewilderment. To think Nayeon would invent such terrible rumours about him when he went to such great lengths _not_ to break her heart.

Hell really hath no fury like an unrequited crush scorned, he supposes.

“Joke’s on her because anyone who’s spent three minutes with you, _let alone half a year_ , knows you’ve got only room in your life for one person.” Seungkwan sips at his drink, smiling like the goddamn Cheshire cat. “And that’s Wonwoo-hyung, of course. The so-called hate of your life.” 

Wonwoo lets out an amused sound, taking a sip from his beer can. “There goes your reputation as lovable heart throb Kim Mingyu.”

Mingyu’s heart gives a tiny, mindless flutter at the sound of ‘lovable’ and ‘heart throb’ coming from Wonwoo’s mouth in the same sentence as his own name, because his heart is stupid and wired like a hair trigger to respond to the slightest bit of positive attention from Wonwoo like that. Even if it’s accompanied by dry sarcasm and character assassination.

“I can’t believe this,” Mingyu whispers numbly, mostly to himself. “Is this because I wouldn’t kiss her back? _I didn’t ask for her to kiss me!_ ”

“You’re a walking disaster, hyung, I love it. This is what you get for being too nice and faultless a human being, people end up having to invent lies and slander against you to protect their feelings.” 

“Anyway, enough about your tragedies. What’s new with you, Wonwoo-hyung?” Seungkwan tilts his head expectantly in Wonwoo’s direction, blatant libel and Mingyu’s devastated reputation forgotten.

“Well, I’ve finally made some progress on my senior thesis but I don’t think you want to hear how the _Romance of Three Kingdoms_ has shaped modern political and cultural discourse in East Asia.”

“Don’t play coy now, hyung,” Seungkwan demures patiently. “You’re an English major, you should know that given the context I was _clearly_ referring to your love life. One that I’m quickly starting to realise is probably non-existent judging by the fact that you voluntarily talk about _books_ and _reading_ at a party where people are looking to get laid, not lectured at.”

“It’s a _housewarming party_ , Seungkwan, how wild exactly can it get.” Wonwoo’s lips quirk, refusing to rise to Seungkwan’s elaborately laid bait.

“It’s in the name, hyung. Why else would you need to _warm_ a _house_?”

“Your logic is flawless; I should never have doubted you.”

Seungkwan smiles, deceptively sunny. “Excellent, something we can all agree on. Also, a friend of a friend asked if I could help make an introduction.”

“With _him_?” Mingyu flushes as both of them turn to flick him a look, Seungkwan bemused, and Wonwoo unimpressed. _Oh._ Fuck. He did that Thing again, the one where he blurts out thoughts best locked safely in his mind out loud, because Mingyu is a living embarrassment of a human being. 

He backpedals, fast. “I mean, uh, only because Wonwoo-hyung is so… handsome… and desirable… He, uh… There are so many people who would die just to go on a date with him.”

Seungkwan looks like he’s having the time of his life. Mingyu stares at the kitchen countertop as he downs half of his drink, his face burning with heat, and half wishing his drink was laced with cyanide.

“So glad, as always, to have your unnecessary input, Mingyu-hyung. But what do you say, Wonwoo-hyung? Her name’s Jung Jinsoul, she’s a music major who’s basically famous in our department. She’s super talented, really nice and pretty, and I hear she’s modelled before.” 

Mingyu smirks into the rip of his cup, waiting for Wonwoo’s response to stop this right in its tracks. There are so many variations of the Classic Wonwoo Rejection – blunt and cutting; drawn-out and sardonic, leading his victim to their inevitable end like a master prosecutor – he can’t wait to see what Wonwoo pulls out this time.

“Alright.” Wonwoo nods. Mingyu decides he hates Jung Jinsoul before he’s even met her.

Jung Jinsoul, Mingyu learns, isn’t just _pretty_ but otherworldly beautiful, and her laughter, even from where he’s standing, sounds like it’s made from cotton candy. He doesn’t know if she’s as talented or as worthy of her fame as Seungkwan claimed because he excuses himself to say hi to Eunwoo who he’d spotted from across the room and made a beeline for the moment Seungkwan had found Jinsoul.

Eunwoo is one of Mingyu’s favourite people in the world, but he’s struggling to maintain even the bare minimum of conversation when his mind is fixating over how attractive a couple slim, pretty, model-like Jung Jinsoul and Wonwoo would make. Glossy and perfect, like one of those couples you see in a magazine, or on a billboard, and are somehow meant to believe two people _that_ beautiful, and _that_ flawless, could genuinely be that _that in love_. 

“Yah, _Kim Mingyu_. You’re not even listening to me right now, are you?” 

Mingyu blinks, wincing as he makes eye contact with Eunwoo. “Ah, _sorry_ , sorry. I’m just — distracted right now.” 

“You’re giving me the kicked puppy face. Please don’t give me the kicked puppy face, I’m strong but not _that_ strong. Tell me what’s going on.”

Mingyu fumbles for words, clumsy and awkward with his brain torn between here, and where Wonwoo is ( _always_ where Wonwoo is). “It’s… I — I don’t know how much I can say.” 

Eunwoo waits, the look on his face patient and understanding. 

What does Mingyu say? That he’s here, drowning in this pathetic, one-sided infatuation, while his former best friend and current friend with benefits is being set up with a beautiful girl because he has no claim on him whatsoever. He never has, they’re _not together_. That it’s not fair, _it’s not goddamn fair_ , because Wonwoo isn’t his, and there’s nothing he can say or do from here on the other side of this room. That all he wants to do is storm over there and let everyone in the room and in the world know that _he was here first_ ( _he liked Wonwoo first, he’s always liked Wonwoo first)_ , he was here before anyone else was when Wonwoo was just this skinny kid, still handsome, but all too-sharp words and intellectualism that no one their age could care less about, and all he needed was for someone to listen to him and laugh at his jokes and appreciate his endless reserve of facts about whales, and sunflowers, and biology.

“What would you do, Eunwoo, if there was someone you liked but… you could never be with them, because being with them would ruin everything you are to each other? Hypothetically, of course.”

“Hypothetically speaking… this person is, like — regardless of technicalities and past history — essentially your best friend, right?”

Eunwoo levels him with a meaningful look, but doesn’t point out the giant elephant in the room. (If anything, Wonwoo is more like a spindly giraffe).

“Um. Sure, _hypothetically_.”

“Right. And you’re… you have _feelings_ for this hypothetical person? Feelings strong enough that you’re ruining your Saturday night thinking about them instead of having fun?”

“Listen, I’ve been asking myself that for the past, like, three years. And counting.”

Eunwoo looks a little stricken on his behalf. “Fuck, bro. That long? Jesus, that… _that sucks_.”

“Yeah.” Mingyu smiles crookedly, eyes dull. “Sucks is one word for it.” Sad, miserable pining fool would be another. Incredibly fucked and trapped in a messy, complicated sex friends agreement is also another.

“So... you think it would ruin your friendship if you confessed?”

At this, Mingyu’s expression fades strangely wistful, his eyes distant and faraway when he answers, distracted in a different way. “Something like that.” 

“Well, hypothetically speaking, I guess it depends on what’s more important you. Some people would rather risk everything, and choose being honest, even if it means they can’t go back to the way they were before.”

Mingyu knows a little too much about honesty, and sacrifice. Something, a heartstring, maybe, in his chest clenches tight.

“Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do.” Eunwoo says. “I think I’d want things to stay the way they are, no matter how much it hurts. Because I’d still want that person in my life, even if it means not being with them. But that’s just me. I’ve never been as brave as you.”

Mingyu wrinkles his nose, disbelief flashing across his face. “What do you mean? I’m not _brave_.” 

“Maybe you don’t think so, but you’re… you make yourself vulnerable. Even though it means people are constantly clowning you, messing with you, or sometimes taking things a little too far. You’re not afraid of putting yourself out in the open.” Eunwoo shrugs lightly. “That takes guts.” 

And maybe it does take guts, but Mingyu’s learned the hard way, _the wrong way_ — the fucking worst possible way — that making yourself open and defenceless to the wrong person never ends well.

“God,” Mingyu mutters. “I am _way_ too sober to be this deep into my feelings, I sound like a Drake song. Sorry for bringing down the mood like this, man.”

“Hey, Drake peaked early, you still got room to grow.” Eunwoo claps him on the shoulder sympathetically. “I might not know how to fix whatever you’re going through but I _do_ know how fix the sober part.” Eunwoo grins, and Mingyu shoves all thoughts of Wonwoo and tall, beautiful blonde girls to the farthest corner of his mind. 

Despite his pretty, harmless appearance, Eunwoo drinks like a _champion_. They do tequila shots, and then soju bombs, and then more shots.

Mingyu doesn’t see Wonwoo again that night, he’s too busy trying to match Eunwoo drink for drink with his pride and worth as a stereotypical Real Man on the line. He cracks out the good stuff from Seungcheol’s stash — although, if he didn’t want people breaking into it, he should’ve changed his hiding place to somewhere other than beneath the kitchen sink — and pours him and Eunwoo each a glass, spilling liberally over the edges and onto Eunwoo’s outstretched hand, and then bursting into laughter which causes him to spill even more down Eunwoo’s elbow. 

Mingyu tugs Eunwoo’s elbow to him, and for some reason the sight of the good scotch dripping down his arm makes his useless, drunk brain go ‘don’t waste it, dumbass’ at the same time as his body thinks ‘lick it’, and Eunwoo nearly falls over laughing as Mingyu licks the inside of his forearm. 

Eunwoo’s arm flails out, and Mingyu simultaneously loses his grip on him and his own balance, the momentum sends him stumbling forwards into Eunwoo as he dissolves into hopeless giggles. 

“Wonwoo-hyung, hey!” Eunwoo bursts out, giving a drunkenly exuberant wave. Mingyu whirls around so fast he nearly falls over again, Eunwoo’s hand shooting out at the last second keeping him from faceplanting onto the ground right in front of Wonwoo, which, come to think of it, is a perfect metaphor for their relationship.

“You two look like you’re having fun.” Wonwoo says, his eyes flickering over them and the way Mingyu’s clutching desperately at Eunwoo because his legs and his centre of gravity have abandoned him. 

“We found — _the good stuff_ ,” Eunwoo says, voice dropping into a hush that really isn’t very hushed at all. “Mingyu tried to lick it off my arm.”

Mingyu growls half-heartedly, swatting at Eunwoo and shoving away from him to waver unsteadily on his own feet. “It was an _accident_ ,” he whines. “Didn’t wanna waste any.”

“Well,” Wonwoo says, setting his cup down on an empty space on the kitchen table. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“You sure you don’t want some, hyung? Maybe Mingyu could lick it off _your_ — ” Eunwoo chokes, because Mingyu has jabbed his elbow into his side. He might have slide-tackled him if he’d been sober enough to do it without also giving himself a concussion.

“Wonwoo-hyung doesn’t like to _drink_ , stupid.”

“Bet he would if you — ”

“He’s a lightweight.” Mingyu cuts Eunwoo off, rolling his eyes. Also, Wonwoo doesn’t like the feeling of being drunk, of losing control over himself like that. Mingyu empathises with that; being around Wonwoo makes him feel like that all the time. “He’s not gonna.”

When Wonwoo speaks, but he seems to be looking at Mingyu more than he is Eunwoo. Or maybe that’s just want Mingyu wants to see. “Drink some water. It’ll be a shitty housewarming present if you make Seungcheol and Jeonghan scrape you off their kitchen floor tomorrow morning.” 

And then he’s gone, the shape of his back such a familiar sight in Mingyu’s mind he knows it by heart.

 

 

\-----

 

 

At some point in the night when everyone has reached the stage of drunkenness that no one is sober enough to say no to Jeonghan’s notorious party games despite knowing better, Jeonghan calls them all to attention with a piercing, two-fingered whistle.

Mingyu isn’t entirely sure why he’s standing on a table, or _how_ he climbed up there without face planting off of it. Maybe gravity works differently for people with faces like Yoon Jeonghan.

“ _Everyone!_ Grab your drinks, grab your boyfriends, girlfriends, significant others, somethings, and whatever else that doesn’t fit into a Facebook relationship status, and please gather around.”

Everyone ends up in a loose circle on the floor of the living room around Jeonghan. There are only a few dozen people left, some on the verge of passing out (Seokmin), or so enigmatically experienced at drinking, or at least pretending to drink, that they seem almost unaffected by the general level of inebriation of the room (Jihoon).

Jeonghan has procured himself a pair of fluffy wings and a halo headband, and somehow manages not to look completely ridiculous.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the first annual game of _Jeonghan’s Seven Minutes in Heaven_!” He gives a small magician’s flourish, and a lacy white strip of fabric that looks alarmingly like a garter goes spinning through the air into the crowd, and Mingyu suddenly doesn’t want to know why or where he found the costume so quickly. Seungcheol wolf whistles. 

“ _Jeonghan_ , you might be wondering, _why are you wearing wings and a halo when you’re already a beautiful and ethereal angelic being?_ Well, friends, I’m wearing them because tonight I am your matchmaking angel MC.”

Mingyu has a bad feeling about this already. He glances around to where Wonwoo’s sitting with Soonyoung and Jun, an arm crossed on top of his knees where they’re tucked against his chest. It’s painfully cute, and so, so endearing, Mingyu’s struck dizzy by how badly he wants to touch him, how badly he wants to be able to hold Wonwoo’s hand, to slide his arm around his shoulder, to make it known to everyone that sees them that _Mingyu is his_.

The light-headedness could be attributed to the drinks he lost count of earlier in the evening, but the spark in his stomach, part agony and part desire, has nothing at all do with drunken impulse.

“Now, as some of you might know, I consider myself something of a savant of love. A _romantic_. Some of you in this very room owe your entire relationships to me.” As he says this, he glances suggestively at Joshua, and then Soonyoung and Jihoon. Joshua flushes, glancing sharply away; Jihoon rolls his eyes, and Soonyoung lets out an encouraging woop that’s halfway between a ‘woo’ and a ‘yeehaw’, Mingyu doesn’t know how the fuck else to describe it.

“So, for those of you out there that are single and desperate and looking for love, here’s looking at you, kids.”

Seungcheol stands and moves to Jeonghan’s side. He’s holding the blindfold in one hand, and the other wraps around Jeonghan’s waist as he settles his chin over Jeonghan’s shoulder.

“The rules are simple: it’s like Spin the Bottle, except I’m the bottle and I’ll spin, blindfolded thanks to the help of my _smoking hot_ —” he winks at Seungcheol and gives him a loving smack on the ass. Truly, they are, as the kids say, relationship goals. “— Assistant, until I land on two lucky people. If you’re already taken and the other person chosen is _not_ your significant other, you get to pick a victim — _I mean_ , a volunteer; consensual relations are sexy, children — to take your place.

“If you’re not taken, heaven for seven minutes awaits in our stunning, newly renovated bathroom. The one that I _told_ Seungcheol we needed because the agent tried to swindle us with this two bedrooms, two bathrooms sham when the second bathroom was basically a bucket and a sink.” 

“Before we begin, any questions?”

Seungkwan’s hand shoots up.

“Yes, my second favourite dongsaeng!” Alcohol makes Jeonghan a little _too_ honest.

“What happens if you land on a couple, but they’re technically in the stage of the relationship where they’re taking things slow and haven’t put a label on it yet?”

“Grow a metaphorical pair and make it official, life’s too short when you could be getting dicked down _and_ enjoying the comfort and security of being in an official relationship. Next question!” 

Jihoon folds his arms over his chest, because he doesn’t do things like _raise his hand_ to ask questions. “What if you’re a couple but aren’t comfortable with public displays of affection, asking for a friend.” 

“Man the fuck up and show your affection-starved boyfriend some love, Lee Jihoon. Save us all a headache and let him hold your hand in public occasionally, for fuck’s sake.” Jeonghan’s face twitches, and Mingyu wonders if this is the adult equivalent of dealing with children under the age of six from nine to five every day. 

“Please save all relationship status-related queries and complaints to the end, Jeonghan’s Free Relationship Counselling and Amazing Advice-Giving Services hours are closed. Now, are there any more _real questions_ about the game or can we get the show on the road?” 

Seokmin flings his hand up into the air. Jeonghan sighs, but gestures for him to speak. “Yes, Seokminie?”

“Uh, I don’t have a question I just wanna say _Joshua-hyung’s eyes so pretty_.”

“Oh my god. Is he sober enough to speak? Does he know there are words coming out of his mouth right now?” Jeonghan turns to Seungcheol with a small, bewildered look. 

“It’s alright, guys, I’ve got him. And thanks, Seokmin. I think your eyes are really pretty, too.” Joshua smiles, eyes crinkling like two crescent moons.

“Alright, we will… leave you to it then. Spare bedroom’s down the hall if he passes out, and for the love of god please make sure he doesn’t throw up on our brand new carpet, Hong Jisoo. I know where you live, and I _will_ get my comeuppance.” 

“Okay, question time is officially: closed.” Jeonghan claps for their attention, every bit the master of getting the attention of a room of small, hyperactive children, or drunken adults. “Let the games _begin_!”

Seungcheol straightens and begins to help Jeonghan tie the blindfold over his eyes. For some reason, the feeling of dread settling over Mingyu darkens, stewing in his stomach with the faint hint of nausea. Perhaps it's hearing his closest friends arguing, however disingenuously and playfully, over the status of their relationships, when he doesn’t have one to speak of.

Where the fuck does ‘friends with benefits, still sort of enemies, not even really friends’ fit into the Facebook relationship status options?

Jeonghan, resplendent in his angel wings and halo, the blindfold tied over his eyes making him look like an avenging archangel sent from the heavens to mess with the love lives of lowly mortals, stands ready to pick his first couple. He spins on the spot, one hand pointed out the circle of people gathered around him.

To his credit — although Mingyu’s almost certain Jeonghan’s scheming and cunning has more to do with it than his “savant of love” bullshit — the first two people he lands on are Jiwoo and Sooyoung. Judging by the way Jiwoo beams and Sooyoung blushes softly, glancing down at her hands when winks at her, Jeonghan’s cupid charade has evidently hit a bullseye.

Jiwoo reaches for Sooyoung’s hand as they slip into the bathroom as Jeonghan calls out that they’re setting the clock for seven minutes.

After that, it’s Seungkwan and Hansol, which, _frankly_ , is just cheating. No doubt Jeonghan’s roughly memorised the positions of the people he wants to pick.

“At this point you’re just picking people who are already obviously into each other.” Mingyu protests. “It’s not _matchmaking_ if anyone with eyes can see it. This is fake news.”

“Why would you say something so controversial and yet so brave?” Wonwoo drawls, and Mingyu has to physically fight the grin threatening to spill across his face. _See, Wonwoo-hyung agrees with me_ , Mingyu’s tiny gay heart sings.

“Me thinks the single and loveless doth protest too much.” Seungkwan smirks.

“Leave Mingyu alone.” Jihoon snarks. “He’s just sad no one wants to kiss him.”

“Hey, _I’d_ kiss him.” Eunwoo volunteers, and Mingyu would literally kiss him if they weren’t friends with an amazing, purely platonic relationship. “He’s cute and tall and has a great smile.”

“And we love a man who’s comfortable enough in his masculinity, and friendship, to say that out loud.” Moobin cheers.

Mingyu quirks an eyebrow, but says nothing on _that_ particular statement. He catches Eunwoo’s eye and sends him a fond, teasing wink.

On his fourth orbit around the room, Jeonghan comes to a stop in front of Wonwoo. And like the lovesick, brainless fool Mingyu is, his heart skips a beat at the thought of being chosen, against all odds (alright, _fine_ , the odds aren’t that high, there’s only twenty or so other people in the room playing but tell that to his irrational, wildly out-of-control crush).

Because nothing says _absolutely, completely, self-perpetuatingly fucked_ than feeling his pulse race at the idea of spending seven minutes locked in a goddamn linen cupboard with Wonwoo when they’ve been having no strings attached sex for the past two weeks.

Mingyu’s throat tightens as Jeonghan begins to slow, his wings fluttering behind him as he comes to a stop in front of Jinsoul. 

The smile on his face is tight, and tense, cellophane bright and just as opaque. He claps, laughter brittle on his lips, and whoops louder than anyone else. 

As the only couple so far without an established history, Jinsoul and Wonwoo get the loudest round of claps and cheers. The room seems galvanised by the prospect of a shiny new relationship, one with a whole future of firsts and moments and beginnings awaiting them.

It’s absurd, Mingyu tells himself, Wonwoo doesn’t fall _head over heels_ for people in love at first sight. They’re at a party, participating in some reckless, meaningless drunken revelry as twenty-something year olds are wont to do. It doesn’t mean _anything_ that he’s playing Seven Minutes in Heaven with a girl he only just met.

Mingyu watches Wonwoo stand and follow Jinsoul’s lead, watches him let Jinsoul lace her fingers through Wonwoo’s and give their interlocked hands a playful swing right before Jeonghan shoves them into the bathroom and shuts the door behind them with a joyful, cooing “ _Have fun!_ ”. 

It’s not that he expected Wonwoo to say _no, I’m not actually single, my occasional fuck buddy is here, you might know him, he’s called Kim Mingyu_. But the utter lack of hesitation, or objection, makes the hurt all the more stark. 

Wonwoo doesn’t do things he doesn’t want to do. Mingyu knows, because he’s tried everything to make Wonwoo like him, want him, _want to be with him_. If Wonwoo wanted him the way Mingyu wants Wonwoo, they’d be together already, wouldn’t they? And isn't that the harsh, bitter truth that Mingyu’s been running from all this time.

Wonwoo doesn’t — _want him_. His body, maybe. The meaningless sex, maybe. But not _him_. Not as someone that means something to him.

Seven minutes feels like seventeen years. When they come out, Jinsoul has an indecipherable smile on her face, her expression Mona Lisa-esque. Wonwoo rolls his eyes as Seungkwan shoots finger guns at him from across the circle, and Mingyu doesn’t want to be here anymore. He shoots to his feet too abruptly, stumbling at the way the world tilts unexpectedly before he steadies himself, and goes to say his hurried goodbyes.

“What do you mean you’re leaving, the party isn’t even over yet!” Jeonghan says when Mingyu tells him he’s leaving, displeasure furrowing at his brow. 

“I know, I’m sorry, I just — I’m not feeling so well.” Jeonghan’s eyes widen and he starts towards Mingyu, disappointment replaced by immediate concern. Mingyu feels bad for lying, but really, the lie isn’t so far from the truth.

“ _Are you okay?_ What’s wrong, Gyu?” Jeonghan runs a hand through his hair softly, his voice soft and reassuring. Mingyu tries not to melt into it.

“Mingyu-yah, my big sweet tall  _baby_ , where does it hurt?”

 _Everywhere_ , Mingyu wants to say. It hurts everywhere, and in his mind, he knows that it’s his heart fucking with his head, his pain receptors confusing heartache with genuine pain but it doesn’t feel any less real, any less devastating.

“If you want, you can share the spare bedroom with Seokminie. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.” Jeonghan pauses, cocking his head. “ _Well._ I suppose Jisoo might, but that’s his problem.”

“I think I’m just gonna go. Thanks anyway, hyung. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer.” Mingyu rubs at his eyes against the exhaustion setting in hard and fast now that he has no pretences left to maintain. He wills his mouth to lift in a tired smile. “The house really does look great. I’m so happy for you guys.” 

Jeonghan tugs him into a hug, his arms enveloping him in warmth and softness, and for a moment Mingyu forgets that he’s hurting and miserable and vaguely heartbroken, and hugs Jeonghan back tightly. Jeonghan lets him go with a kiss to the top of his hair, a reminder to get home safely, and a promise to come over for dinner soon. Mingyu feels like his chest could burst from the fondness. He’s known Seungcheol for longer, and he gets along with Seungcheol more as a hyung, but Jeonghan has always known what to say, what to do, when Mingyu just needs someone to baby him, and treat him softly.

Jeonghan gives him a warm, gentle smile, ruffling his hand through his hair one last time before letting Mingyu leave.

Mingyu’s almost to the door when he feels a hand curl around his wrist, and it takes everything in him, every atom of resistance, and resilience, and so-called bravery to turn and face Wonwoo.

“Where are you going?”

Wonwoo never speaks first, never makes the first move. Mingyu’s half-convinced his mind is making things up to compensate for the way the rest of him is acting like a wounded puppy. Because it’s always Mingyu. It’s always Mingyu breaking the impasse first, making the first move, opening himself up to further attack so they can broker a peace. Negotiate a ceasefire. Entangle themselves in a messy, disastrous, emotionless sex contract.

“I’m going home. I’m kinda tired already so I think I’m just going to go.” Mingyu can’t bring himself to recycle the lie he’d used with Jeonghan. It’d feel like exposing too much of himself, even more than he already has, to reveal to Wonwoo point blank the effect he has on him.

Wonwoo frowns, and he really must be drunk, because he looks genuinely distressed by the idea of Mingyu leaving the party so soon. He curls his fingers a little tighter around Mingyu’s wrist, and Mingyu grits his teeth against the instinctive urge to slip his fingers through Wonwoo’s.

“Don’t go.”

Mingyu sighs, forcing himself to look Wonwoo dead in the eye. His skin is faintly flushed, his pupils wide and dark, and it still makes every inch of Mingyu ache to want him this much.

“I’m tired, hyung. I just… wanna go home, go to bed.”

Wonwoo presses his lips together, a flicker of feeling that Mingyu can’t read or even begin to translate from Wonwoo language to something he can understand darting across his face. And then Wonwoo’s thumb brushes the inside of his palm, so light its barely there. It feels secretive, and protective, a caress no one else can see that’s purely for them — and Mingyu no longer knows if that’s supposed to make everything hurt more, or just make him want Wonwoo more. 

“Come with me for a second.”

“Wh — _hyung_.” Wonwoo’s already pulling him in the direction of the hallway, leading him into the bathroom he’d been in moments ago playing Jeonghan’s _Seven Minutes in Mingyu’s Personal Ninth Circle of Hell_. And what is Mingyu supposed to do except follow wherever Wonwoo leads him, helpless, _hopeless_ , always stumbling one step behind him.

Mingyu has no defences left: he’s _drunk_ , too drunk to think clearly and speak clearly without baring everything to Wonwoo that he doesn’t want him to see or to touch. The last thing he expects is for Wonwoo to turn the moment he’s shut the door behind them and step right into Mingyu’s space, the air between their faces, their chests, magnetised electric, until Mingyu has no choice but to press his back right up against the door.

“What — _hyung_ , what are you doing?” Mingyu stutters, eyes wide, his hands flying up to Wonwoo’s arms, barricading him against coming any closer in a flimsy attempt to create even the tiniest bit of space between him and Wonwoo. 

“Trying to kiss you.” Wonwoo replies, tongue slipping out to wet his lips. Mingyu follows the movement out of a Pavlovian response, tracing the shape of Wonwoo’s tongue running across the seam of his mouth and hating himself for it. 

“You — _what the fuck_ , hyung.” Mingyu grates out. “Five minutes ago you were in this exact bathroom making out with Jinsoo, and now you want to kiss me?”

Wonwoo huffs out a little laugh, and it makes Mingyu’s fury spike, hot and heady, nearly blinding with the intensity of his disbelief.

“You’re actually _jealous_.” Amusement colours Wonwoo’s face sharp and clear-cut. It’s _cruel_ , it’s so cruel. Wonwoo’s laughing, and Mingyu feels like his heart is going to rip itself out of his chest just to get away from this.

“What the fuck else am I supposed to be?” Mingyu says, voice harsh and furious, all bark and no bite because Wonwoo holds all the power, holds his fucking heart in the middle of his palm, and this is always how it’s been between them. “How can you want to _kiss me_ when you — when you probably still have her fucking lipgloss on you.”

“I didn’t kiss her.” Wonwoo says, and he looks pleased, _he looks so pleased_ Mingyu doesn’t know what to do with Wonwoo or himself.

“You were in there for seven minutes. _Four hundred and twenty seconds._ ” That’s how long those seven minutes had felt, Mingyu voluntarily did _math_ in his head just to pass the time. “What were you doing, debating Shakespeare?”

Wonwoo looks at him from beneath his lashes, and Mingyu has to remind himself that he doesn’t have a choice, being shorter than Mingyu and all, because it looks like he’s trying to seduce him into blind compliance with the sheer burning force of his gaze. 

“I didn’t kiss her, Mingyu.” Wonwoo repeats, voice low and light, the way really good, really fine, aged whiskey tastes on the first sip. _God_ , Mingyu knows he’s drunk when he starts getting gay _and_ metaphoric. “She wanted to talk to me because she has a crush on Seulgi.”

Oh. Kang Seulgi. _Wonwoo’s cousin._

Mingyu’s heart takes this chance to beat a little faster, because it’s opportunistic like that, and they’re so close that Mingyu’s afraid Wonwoo will hear it.

“She wanted to know if she had a shot with her. I told her Seulgi wasn’t dating anyone. So we spent seven minutes talking about how she plans to ask her out.”

Mingyu feels like crying, or laughing, out of sheer wild relief. When he inhales, a trembling, shaking gasp for breath, Wonwoo’s cologne is all he can taste, all he can think about, he’s so so close, and for once Mingyu isn’t the one doing the chasing. Wonwoo has him pinned to a wall in a bathroom and it’s all Mingyu can do to stay standing, to stay staring Wonwoo in the eye with his breath ghosting over his mouth. 

Wonwoo slides his hand from Mingyu’s jaw to his hair, a soft, stroking movement that makes Mingyu want to get on his knees for him, to give him everything he wants, anything he asks for. He’s so willing, _pliant_ , ready to ruin himself at the slightest provocation. And the worst part is Wonwoo doesn’t even know. Wonwoo has _no idea_ what Mingyu would give to be his. What he wouldn’t do for him if he would just give the word. 

“The only person I wanted to kiss is you.”

Wonwoo tilts forwards, angling up to meet his lips as Mingyu lowers his chin, and they meet in the middle like the sea and the sky.

They kiss softly, slowly, the flickers of warmth simmering along his skin everywhere Wonwoo touches him turning to heat. His fingers curling in Mingyu’s hair, at the back of his head, grip tight with a possessiveness that _speaks_ , that says _I’ve been waiting for this_ , says _what took you so long_. And Mingyu can only gasp against Wonwoo’s mouth, against the slick warmth of his mouth, his lips dragging wet and soft across Wonwoo’s tongue. Mingyu anchors his hands at Wonwoo’s hips, as if even now, even here, they itch hold him in place, _hold him down_ long enough to make him want to stay.

One day, in some distant point in the future if they’re still doing this, and Wonwoo still looks at him with the same hunger veiled beneath his masks and artifice, Mingyu will take his time with him. He’ll kiss him like he means to unwind him, unravel him, layer by layer until he’s left with nothing but skin, the rawness of him he works so hard to hide laid bare. And Mingyu will worship him with his mouth, wreck him with his lips and tongue, map the unchartered territory of him until he’s fluent enough to speak the language.

But kisses like _that_ are made for far-off dreams, distant fantasies. Mingyu has only the here of Wonwoo’s mouth parting beneath the press of his lips, and the now of the taste of him, like sweetness, the faint salt and bitter of beer.

Wonwoo groans when Mingyu bites at his lip, a test of his teeth in the barest grazing of canines against skin. Mingyu’s hands slide forwards to circle around Wonwoo’s waist, his palms flattening against the slimmest part of his torso. Wonwoo gets his leg between Mingyu’s thighs, arching forwards to nip at his jaw, kissing and licking at the corner of his throat, the skin right over his pulse. He bites down, _hard_ , and Mingyu lets out a breathless curse, grip tightening instinctively in response to the burst of pain and pleasure radiating outwards from the place Wonwoo has marked with the crescent moon of his teeth. He’s pressing hard enough to bruise, and the thought of leaving the shape of his hands stained on Wonwoo’s skin sends a ripple of abandon down his spine. 

He feels it from Wonwoo, too, Wonwoo’s body reacting to his touch before Wonwoo himself even realises: jerking subtly underneath Mingyu’s palms, and against his leg, the brush of him hardening. Wonwoo… _likes_ this, Mingyu realises in faint wonder, and he’d still be awestruck if not for the insistent tug of Wonwoo’s hand in his hair. The demand in the pull of his fingers that begs for Mingyu to _do something_ even if he won’t with his lips. 

Wonwoo’s never been very good at asking for things, but Mingyu doesn’t need it spoken aloud. They’ve never neeed words to speak what they can with hands, and touch, and teeth. They never have. 

His grip steadied on Wonwoo’s hips, careful, but firm, pressing Wonwoo against him, the line of their hips, stomachs, chests blurred into one as he pivots, spinning them, slamming Wonwoo up against the door where he’d been a heartbeat ago. The noise that tumbles from Wonwoo’s lips is low, and hungry, a sound that he has no choice but to let slip uninhibited. Mingyu kisses at his jaw, wet and open-mouthed, sucking a pathway down his throat to the place on Wonwoo’s collarbone where he’d last marked him.

The sight of Wonwoo arching as Mingyu reworks the bruise-shaped outline of his teeth on his skin is the hottest thing Mingyu’s ever seen in his life.

His hand spends the whole width of Wonwoo’s lower thigh, and it takes almost no effort at all to hook Wonwoo’s thigh up around his hips so he can press him back into the door, to grind against Wonwoo between the v of his thighs and feel him moan through the kisses he’s pressing against his throat. Wonwoo’s hands are tugging, pulling at his shirt, slipping impatiently beneath the hem, palms flattening across his abs as they roam across his bare skin. Wonwoo’s touched him before, here, and in far more dangerous places, but it never fails to make the breath hitch in his throat, the sheer enormity of his desire — how sacred and profound it feels for Wonwoo to touch him like he _wants him_.

Mingyu curls his other hand on Wonwoo’s jaw, tipping his head back gently even as he crushes his lips against Wonwoo’s, pinning him in place with the strength of a single arm. They kiss, again and again, the noises of their lips slick and heated — Wonwoo sucking at his tongue, his lips, the panting sound he mades when Mingyu grinds up against him — dizzyingly obscene.

There’s a desperation to the way Wonwoo kisses back that Mingyu hasn’t tasted quite like this before, an urgency, a _need_ that’s more than superficial lust, colouring his every sound and movement. There’s none of his typical, calculated, eye-of the-storm calm when he grasps at Mingyu’s shirt and begins to unbutton it, tugging so viciously at the seams that Mingyu’s half-convinced he’s going to tear right through the buttons. Wonwoo gets his shirt off with a shove of his hands at Mingyu’s shoulders, and then his mouth is on Mingyu’s skin, sucking kisses into his collarbone and the skin right above his heart where his pulse is beating like lighting.

Mingyu readjusts his grip around Wonwoo’s thigh, his thumb sweeping across his hip though the material of his jeans, and chases that eye of the storm centre for long enough to breathe in the stillness. His gaze is locked on Wonwoo’s, and the intensity he finds there, simmering in the dark of Wonwoo’s eyes, nearly knocks the breath out of him.

“Are we really doing this?”

Wonwoo wets his lips, the tip of his tongue slicking across his bottom lip and Mingyu could pull a muscle with the amount of self-restraint, the _sheer level of control,_ it’s taking him not to look.

“You’re going to ask me that as if I can’t feel your dick hardening against my thigh?”

“Just — just making sure.” If Mingyu was trying to be romantic, he’d say _I want to make this good for you._ I want to make this so good for you.

But he isn’t, and Wonwoo doesn’t care about things like romance, and softness. The concept of _making love_ might as well be non-existent to him. Because _yes_ , they might be about to have bathroom sex in an actual bathroom — even a nice, newly renovated one — but that doesn’t mean Mingyu isn’t going to make sure that Wonwoo wants this as least half as much as he does.  

“Are you going to ask permission to put your dick in me, too?” Wonwoo says, voice curling low and sardonic, the breathiness of it pulling taut around the edges of Mingyu’s self-control.

“I can if you want me to.”

“ _For fuck’s sake_ , Mingyu, you’re all talk and no — ” His groan cuts him off, the feeling of Mingyu grinding their hips together rendering him breathless, and Mingyu watches in triumphant gratification as Wonwoo’s head jerks back against the door. He reaches for Wonwoo’s belt, stripping it from his beltholes, and then tugs at his fly, shoving his pants to the ground while keeping him against the door with his arm wrapped around Wonwoo’s waist.

“Show-off,” Wonwoo scoffs under his breath.

“You love it.” Mingyu answers, his teeth flashing in the darkness as he grins. “Hold onto me while I do mine.”

Wonwoo wraps his arms and legs around Mingyu, clinging tight as Mingyu reaches down to rid himself of his jeans, too. He gets a handful of Wonwoo’s ass as he steps back onto one foot, kicking at his jeans to get them off, the entire time without letting go of Wonwoo. Or his ass.

It sends a thrill down his spine, the capacity to use his strength like this. Not to _overpower_ Wonwoo, or control him, but to have the ability to hold him up like this, pinned to the wall, pressed like a wildflower between the pages of a book. Not that Wonwoo is _powerless_ , or helpless, something he makes very clear with his hands fisted in Mingyu’s hair, yanking his head back to kiss Mingyu, and sliding his lips hot and insistent across Mingyu’s, tongue slipping into his mouth as he grinds his hips down against Mingyu. The layers of cotton separating them and the burning line of heat where they’re brushing up against each other are heady, and unbearable, and Mingyu can feel himself hardening by the second.

Mingyu slides his other hand from Wonwoo’s thigh up to his hip, his palm spanning the curve of Wonwoo’s slender waist. He feels small underneath Mingyu’s hands, _breakable_. Yet he trusts Mingyu not to drop him, not to hurt him, in spite of Mingyu’s clumsiness and chara teristic lack of coordination. It makes Mingyu tighten his hold on Wonwoo, steady and unwavering. Wonwoo’s the only thing he’s ever held that he knows with complete certainty he could never break.  

Wonwoo gasps as Mingyu anchors him back against the door, his hand slipping beneath the waistband of Wonwoo’s pants, fisting his cock to feel the wet, slick slide of precum under his palm. His thumb brushes across the head, and Wonwoo’s brow furrows, his expression pulling tight with pleasure.

“Don’t tease.” Wonwoo breathes, his eyes pitch-black where they’re searing into Mingyu as if he can see right through him into the dark of him, into the chaos and boundless want tangled up inside of him. 

“Alright, but we need lube,” Mingyu murmurs back, smirk threatening at his lips.

“Use your head, Mingyu. — _The other one._ I’m sure you’ll think of something given our current surroundings.”

Mingyu wants to kiss him, he wants to kiss the smartness from his mouth, lick the sharpness from his lips as if he could swallow the taste of sarcasm sheathed in silk.

He hefts Wonwoo higher readjusting his grip as he begins to walk them steadily backwards in the direction of the bathroom mirror and the drawers beneath the sink. The sudden movement causes Wonwoo to tip forwards, his cock brushing up against the ridges of Mingyu’s stomach. Mingyu sets him down on the rim of the sink, still right in the v of Wonwoo’s thighs as he ducks to rifle through Seungcheol and Jeonghan’s drawers. He finds the lube in the second drawer, nestled in with some condoms, spare tubes of toothpaste, _and_ , strangely enough, a pair of fuzzy lilac handcuffs. 

Mingyu loops his arm back around Wonwoo’s waist, palming over his thigh and lifting him again even as Wonwoo lets out a disbelieving snort.

If they’re doing this, _they’re doing this_. Mingyu’s never been one to half-ass anything. 

He finds a space against the wall of the bathroom that isn’t the door and yanks Wonwoo’s boxers down, sliding them his thighs and letting them tumble to the floor. With Wonwoo wrapped around him like this, he’s taller than Mingyu’s used to, and Mingyu has to tip his face up to crush his mouth against Wonwoo’s. He kisses him filthy, shameless, _careless_ — the way a lover does with someone whose body he has mapped every inch and plane of, no new territory left to explore, only to memorise, again and again.

Wonwoo cups his face in his hands, angling Mingyu’s jaw so he can deepen the kiss and it’s so close to everything Mingyu’s ever dreamed of. Not the how and when and where of this, but the want edged in tenderness bleeding through Wonwoo’s touch, the openness he kisses him with, like his mouth is full of words that Wonwoo wants to feel, to learn the shape and sound of with his tongue.

Mingyu slicks his fingers, a little too much with the exhilaration spilling over from adrenaline and liquid courage into his veins, the eagerness that feels like it might shake right through him. When he presses the first finger to Wonwoo’s entrance, Wonwoo tenses, his body going taut in Mingyu’s hands.

“ _Baby._ ” Mingyu nips softly at his mouth, tongue smoothing over the place he’s bitten into. His voice is low, husky with desire and anticipation, but patient. “Relax for me.”

Wonwoo inhales, and the breath he lets out ghosts across Mingyu’s face and lips. Mingyu keeps going, sliding his finger in to the first knuckle, watching, _waiting_ for Wonwoo’s expression to ease. He could wait forever in this godforsaken bathroom, holding Wonwoo up with the strength of his arm alone, if Wonwoo needed it.

“Mingyu.” Wonwoo prompts after a moment. Mingyu chuckles, and lets his finger slip the whole way in, curling slightly inside of Wonwoo. He rests it there for a moment, giving Wonwoo space to breathe and adjust before drawing back out, circling softly at his entrance, dipping in a little each time to get Wonwoo’s muscles to loosen.

“ _Mingyu._ ” There’s that familiar tinge of impatience lacing his voice again, this accompanied by the tightening of his thighs, and Mingyu doesn’t need to be asked again. He works two fingers into Wonwoo, slowly at first, stretching Wonwoo and watching him moan, low and open-mouthed, and then gasp high and sharp when he curves his fingers, angling up into the spot inside of him that makes Wonwoo squirm and arch without any other warning. He sinks a third finger into Wonwoo’s hole, because as drunk as they are, and as responsive as Wonwoo is, he wants this to be as good for Wonwoo as it’ll be for him. 

“Fuck me,” Wonwoo murmurs, sounding a little halfway wrecked already. “ _Mingyu-yah._ Fuck me already.”

The sound of his name sends a rush of arousal surging through him and straight down to his cock. Mingyu tips his forehead against Wonwoo’s, breathing in deeply as he bites back a curse. He’s got Wonwoo pinned to a wall and he’s still the one with all the power, with all the control. It should be fucking maddening, but instead all it’s doing is making him harder than he’s ever been in his life.

He steadies Wonwoo, spreading his thighs a little as he circles a hand around his own cock and slicks it down, tearing open a condom and sliding it onto himself. With one hand he holds Wonwoo open so he can roll his hips forwards, cock catching against Wonwoo’s rim before sliding inside. His groan gets drowned out by Wonwoo’s, the sensation of him sinking all the way inside Wonwoo overwhelming him with pleasure and heat.

“ _Fuck_. Wonwoo.” Mingyu grits out, his hand moving to grip at Wonwoo’s waist. “So fucking tight, _god_.”

Wonwoo lets out a small, stifled moan, adjusting to Mingyu’s size and to just how deep inside of him Mingyu is with their positions like this. Mingyu can’t think, _can’t even breathe_ his mind is torn between the all-consuming heat and tightness of Wonwoo’s body and how delicate he feels wrapped around him, his small waist and slim thighs. Wonwoo trusts him, _Wonwoo trusts him to hold him like this_. More than the kissing, more than the hot, filthy bathroom sex and teasing, it’s this thought that makes his breath hitch and spark fire in his chest.   

“Move.” Wonwoo says, and Mingyu doesn’t need any further encouragement, holding Wonwoo in place as he slides out of him and slams back in again. The pressure and angle of his thrusts are deeper, more powerful with gravity pulling Wonwoo’s hips down to meet him even without the help of his hands. The tightness is distracting, but Wonwoo’s always been tight; it’s the feeling of him, having him under his hands, utterly at Mingyu’s mercy, that makes each second of this so electric in its intensity. 

It’s so fucking good; so _deliriously good_ , the drag of his cock against Wonwoo’s walls and the sink and slide of him every time he thrusts back in, pulling Wonwoo’s hips down to meet his. Wonwoo tips his head back with a groan, unable to do anything but take it. 

“So good.” Mingyu breathes out, leaning forwards to mouth and suck at Wonwoo’s exposed neck. “So fucking good for me.”

Mingyu sets a relentless rhythm, bouncing Wonwoo up and down on cock as he drives into him, each thrust becoming easier and faster as Mingyu pounds into him. Wonwoo tightens his hips around Mingyu, the sounds loosening from his lips low and breathy, strained as if Wonwoo’s still afraid to let them slip out of him entirely free.  

“Taking me so well, baby,” Mingyu groans, his palm running across Wonwoo’s abs and wrapping around his cock.

“ _Don’t_ — ” Wonwoo gasps out, hips jerking as Mingyu strokes his hand down his cock. “ _Don’t call me that._ ”

“Why not?” Mingyu pumps him in time with his thrusts, playfulness brimming over in his voice even as he plunges into Wonwoo’s tight, wet heat. “You don’t like the sound of me calling you _baby_?”

He twists his wrist to puncutate his point, watching in satisfaction as Wonwoo’s guard shatters, and the only sound he’s capable of making is a cut-off moan as his back curves so sweetly in response to Mingyu’s touch. Mingyu rocks his hips forwards, increasing his pace, timing each thrust with the stroke of his hand around Wonwoo. They’re both too drunk to last much longer, and as much as Mingyu wants to savour this, wants to map out each moment on the insides of his mind, he wants to come, wants to make _Wonwoo_ come harder than he ever has before.

Heat singes through him, coiling tight in his stomach as he fucks into Wonwoo harder, faster, the sounds of his cock sliding in through Wonwoo’s rim wet and slick. Wonwoo tightens around him, and Mingyu can tell he’s getting close. 

“Come on, baby.” He urges, palming at Wonwoo’s balls on his next downwards stroke, a finger reaching back to brush across his perineum, to tease at the soft, delicate skin there. He pumps at Wonwoo’s cock, deepening his thrusts as a shudder ripples down Wonwoo’s spine. 

“ _Come for me._ ”

And then Wonwoo’s coming apart in his hands, tightening unbearably around Mingyu even as Mingyu continues to fuck into him, spilling through Mingyu’s fingers. Mingyu slows, his rhythm evening out as he plunges in deeper, yanking Wonwoo’s hips down as he slides farther into him, Wonwoo’s walls tightening and working around him. Wonwoo takes his face into his hands, pressing their mouths together in a kiss that’s all heat, and it’s the soft, wet pressure of his lips brushing across Mingyu’s that sends him over the edge. This moment of quiet, the still and the calm in the eye of the storm amidst the swirling chaos of want and lust and drunken desire, this is what sends Mingyu tumbling over the precipice.

His arms shake as he head tips against Wonwoo’s shoulder, straining not from exhaustion but the heady rush of relief, and pleasure. They stay like this, chests rising and falling unevenly, until Wonwoo senses that Mingyu’s gotten his breath back, and then he pushes at his shoulder. Mingyu lets him down slowly, sliding out of him with a slick, wet noise. He ties off his condom, tossing it in the trash and grabbing a handful of tissues.

Wonwoo lets him wipe him down, cleaning up the slick still smeared between his thighs, wet around his hole where Mingyu had been just a bit excessive. 

Mingyu wants to kiss him again, wants to slide his hands across Wonwoo’s skin, press softly at all the bruises scattered across his throat, his chest. He wants to hold Wonwoo’s hand, and take him home. 

Wonwoo tugs out of his grip and pads over to where his clothes are. They dress in the dark, in silence save for the sound of Mingyu’s heartbeat pounding in his head. He picks up Wonwoo’s jacket from the ground and holds it out like he means to help him put it on but Wonwoo just takes it from him and slips it on himself, leaving Mingyu’s hand outstretched, curling around empty air. 

“It’ll be less suspicious if you wait a few minutes before coming out.” Wonwoo says, pausing at the door. “Jihoon’s dropping me off at home tonight.”

Mingyu feels tired, all of a sudden. The exhaustion aches from deep within his bones, age-old, and so, so familiar. He spends more time trying to convince himself he hates this man when he can’t even look away from the sight of his back. 

“Get home safe.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

Mingyu is desperate. He knows what he has to do but the thought of it alone is enough to make him want to break out into a cold sweat. His palms are damp, that sticky summer feeling of heat and humidity clinging to the air filing his chest with trepidation. 

He can’t believe he’s going to do this.

He’s even brought Wonwoo his favourite jelly drink in case he needs bribery to get him through the conversation. The sun is out, the sky is cloudless and endlessly blue, and today is the day Jeon Wonwoo may actually kill him.

Wonwoo is at his usual spot in his favourite café when Mingyu (corners) finds him and slides into the unoccupied seat opposite him. 

“We’re technically not _not_ friends anymore so it would be weird, right, to, like, ask you for a favour?”

“Hello to you, too, Mingyu.”

Mingyu steamrolls through his greeting, he doesn’t have time for this when his impending humiliation is on the line: “Oh, _sorry_ , uh, yeah, hi.” 

“Anyway. About that favour. You know how much I respect you, and like, _really_ , we’re not even enemies anymore. I haven’t done anything in at _least_ two months to piss you off so we’re almost at, like, baseline mutual (I think?) respect. And people who are like… sorta friends do this kind of thing, right.” 

“For god’s sake, just spit it out, Mingyu.”

“Would you — _betheKateWinslettomyLeonardodiCaprio?_ ”

Wonwoo stares at him like he’s waiting for the day Mingyu finally makes sense to him all the while knowing it’ll never come.

“I mean — uh, _fuck_. Fuck, okay. Screw it. Is there any chance you would want to model for me, for my life drawing class?” Mingyu panics, eyes darting to the table, and then to the floor, and then back to Wonwoo again. His heartbeat spikes wildly in his chest, and he has to remind himself that he’s _entirely out of options_ with D-Day looming on the horizon. 

“I wouldn’t ask but I’m desperate and it’s too late to find an actual professional model and even if I could, I’d have to pay them so — ”

“Okay.”

“And like, I’m willing to do a lot for a good grade but I’d have to sell an internal organ or something to scrounge up the money when it’s due on Monday and — ”

“ _Mingyu_ , I said I’ll do it.”

Wonwoo’s voice snaps him out of his downward spiralling like a faceful of ice-cold water. Mingyu shuts his mouth with a click, eyes wide and still fixed on Wonwoo like a very large deer in headlights.

“Oh.” _Oh._ Well, he’d had a whole speech prepared (for all the fucking help the practice had been just then), but he hadn’t expected Wonwoo to give in this easily. If at all. 

“So.” Wonwoo says, looking at Mingyu from over the tops of his glasses. “You want to draw me like one of your French girls, huh?”

Mingyu flushes bright red, spine going ram-rod straight in his seat.

“In theory. Um. _Yeah._ I don’t have Leo’s talent — or his devastating good looks — but um. I’m gonna, try? Anyway! Thanks. _Thank you_. You’re saving my life. I gotta… run, I have a. Meeting? With Minghao, yes. It’s, important business. Here’s my thank you in advance.”

And then Mingyu shoves the entire bag of jelly, and miscellaneous snacks he’d bought from the convenience store earlier (okay, _so_ , he went a little overboard; better to be safe than sorry), all of them Wonwoo’s favourite, and nearly trips over himself getting out of his chair.

“I’ll text you the details later! _Thanksagainhyung_ , _loveyou_.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

Every year, when the summer is reaching its peak and weather becomes so unbearable that the only way to get through it is excessive amounts of drinking and partying, Mingyu and Wonwoo’s high school have a yearly reunion for former alumni.

Technically, it’s a reunion for Wonwoo and the graduating year of 2013, but being so popular and well-liked among the students of any year during his time in high school, Mingyu’s always received a yearly invite. This year’s event is even bigger and more extravagant than the last, the planning committee increasingly dedicated to celebrating the glory days of high school as everyone approaches their final year of freedom from the full-time responsibilities of adulthood.

Maybe it’s for this reason that Wonwoo decides to come this year. As far as Mingyu knows, Wonwoo hasn’t been to a single one of these reunions. It’s something of a recurring mystery and source of great speculation and rumour amongst the usual suspects that turn up every year. Wonwoo was aloof and distant even in high school, an enigma wrapped in a Rube Goldberg machine of riddles to everyone except for those who knew him.

Mingyu used to count himself as one of the lucky people who did. But the less said about _then_ the better.

He’s playing a drinking game with his former teammates on the high school football team when he catches a glimpse of Wonwoo in the distance. At first, he thinks it’s a figment of his drunken imagination — his mind conjuring images to tease and tantalise while he’s too distracted to know better — but then Wonwoo moves, and the edges of him come into sharper focus. 

“Wonwoo-hyung?” Mingyu slurs, blinking fast in bewilderment. His drink sloshes down the side of his wrist as he cranes his neck to peer in Wonwoo’s direction.

Wonwoo’s _tall_ , so tall, not as tall as Mingyu but he can almost see the top of his head in the near distance, in the midst of a small crowd. Mingyu bets he looks good, too. Wonwoo _always_ looks good. It’s unfair, how handsome he looks. How pretty his eyes are, sharp and angled, and not quite even. He’s so beautiful sometimes it hurts to look at him. 

( _But then, Mingyu always hurts when he looks at him. He always does._ )

“God, _Mingyu_ , there you are.” Park Soyeon appears at his side, clutching at his arm with an urgency that seems unawarranted. “You need to get out of here, get _him_ out of here.”

It happens so fast, between one heartbeat and the next, and then the shouts and noises rise like a crescendo pouring through the room, exploding outwards from the last place Mingyu had caught sight of Wonwoo in an eruption of shouts and violence.

“I thought you were mad at me when we talked on the phone, I was — I guess I was trying to warn you. _I didn’t know he’d be here tonight._ ” Mingyu isn’t paying attention to a single thing Soyeon’s saying, he needs to — he needs to get to Wonwoo. He needs to know what the fuck is happening right now.

The shouting has broken out into an uproar, loud and jarring, flashes of fists flying and the sound of glass shattering blurring into the one, piercing cacophony. Mingyu curses himself for being too fucking drunk to process what’s going on. His limbs feel too heavy and clumsy, weighing him down from getting to wherever Wonwoo is. _He needs to get to where Wonwoo is._ His heart is pounding in his ribs, a siren sound of dread and terror tightening like a cage around his chest.

“ _Jeon Wonwoo, you crazy fucking bastard!_ ”

“You’re going to pay for this. You and that pathetic boyfriend of yours, always trailing after you like a dog — ”

“Let him go! Let him go, you assholes. _Don’t_ — ”

Mingyu shoves his way between two people at the fringes of the crowd gathered around the chaos, like spectators in a coloseum, waiting for the first drop of blood and gore to sate their drunken thirst for drama and excitement. His sheer height is his saving grace, and he fights and pushes forwards until he’s broken through the ring of people, reeling to a stop at the edge of the commotion.

“ _… — showing your face here when everyone thought you’d died along with your reputation all those years ago._ ”

Mingyu’s blood goes cold.   

“Fucking _faggot_. Bet he sucks cock well though, ‘s what he’s got such a pretty face for, huh?”

This was a mistake. Mingyu should never have come tonight. He should have told Wonwoo not to come, he should’ve _stopped him_ from coming.

Wonwoo’s standing so he can’t see him, but Mingyu can see the way he’s hunched over, the blood split open from his lip, streaking down his chin, the cut open in his chest. It’s three against one, because Wonwoo’s never known how to back down a fight, even one he can’t fucking win and all Mingyu wants to do is turn back fucking time so he walk over there and haul Wonwoo over his shoulder so he can carry him out of this safe, untouched, _alive_.

But Wonwoo, as always, has other plans.

“Keep his name out of your fucking mouth.”

Mingyu can see his fist coiling before anyone else can, and then Wonwoo’s slamming his curled fist into the face of the person who’d called him such an ugly, disgusting word. The impact shatters bone, sends blood spraying from the bastard’s mouth. All Mingyu can taste is fear, and rust, and a terrible, profound helplessness. 

He forced himself to forget, he forced himself to forget everything about before.

Before they used to wage war against each other, Wonwoo used to fight Mingyu’s battles for him until he was old enough to fight his own. And even then, he never stopped trying. Never stopped wanting to throw a punch, or take a hit, just so Mingyu wouldn’t have to.

Maybe, at last, it’s Mingyu’s turn to protect _him_.

He lurches forwards, adrenaline and impulse driving his momentum as he bodily shoves himself between Wonwoo and Asshole No. 2, angered by the sight of his ringleader and his likely (hopefully) broken jaw. Mingyu grits his teeth, summoning up a rage and despair and he hasn’t touched for years, letting every shred of fury flood through him as he reels his arm back to throw his first punch. 

Seconds and minutes blur into the same rage flickering at the edges of his vision, and he knows his knuckles are bleeding, his stomach hurts from a blow he hadn’t stepped out of the way of. His head is fucking pounding with the need to destroy these three assholes for daring to lay a finger on Wonwoo, for everything they’ve ever done to him. _To them._

Someone pulls him back, arms locking around his chest and his head, forcing him to throw his hands up before struggling out of the chokehold so he can stand on his own two feet, bloodied and battered, but better off than the other three bastards.   

When he turns, heart in his throat and the taste of rust, rust and day-old blood and guilt on his tongue, Wonwoo is standing watching with a deadened look on his face. And it makes Mingyu terrified, so, _so_ terrified to see that look on his face again after all these years that he doesn’t _think_ , as he reaches blindly for him.

“ _Don’t._ ” Wonwoo flinches, snatching his hand back in a sharp, jerking motion that smacks Mingyu’s hand away. It’s not intentional, _Mingyu knows it isn’t_ , but it hurts more than his bleeding knuckles and bruised ribs.

“Don’t — touch me.”

And then before Mingyu can say anything else, before he can apologise or scream that he’s sorry, _he’s so sorry, he should’ve protected him more, protected him better, please_ just — Wonwoo’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)))))
> 
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/bisexualgyu) / [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/gyuwu).


	7. (pt. 1: tell me the story about how the sun loved the moon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Before, the story of how Wonwoo and Mingyu meet.

 

 

**AGE 17, SUMMER**

 

“Mingyu. Your ice cream’s dripping everywhere.”

Mingyu blinks, shaking the sun sear, the daze of summer heat, from his eyes. Wonwoo nods pointedly at his hand where the rainbow sherbet ice cream has, indeed, begun to drip, rivulets of bright orange and pastel pink trickling down the curve of his palm and along his wrist.

Mingyu lets out a small squeak, jolting forwards to lick up all the ice cream swiftly melting across his skin, and Wonwoo huffs out a low laugh.  

“You’re still such a baby.” 

“ _Hyung_ ,” Mingyu whines, as if to unintentionally prove his point. His hands are glistening wetly from the stickiness of the ice cream. “I’m only one year younger than you.” 

“And yet sometimes it feels more like five.” 

“ _You’re_ five.” Mingyu pouts, because that’s the sure-fire way to win this argument. 

Wonwoo stretches back languidly on their picnic blanket, hands tucked behind his head. There’s a sparkly quality to him today, the black of his hair and his eyes reflecting light ten times brighter, the sunlight clinging to his skin bathing him in a radiant sort of warmth. Mingyu finds it more and more impossible to look away every time his gaze flits back, inevitably, unfailingly, to Wonwoo. 

It all started this morning when Wonwoo barged into his room at seven o’clock in the morning, with the spare key Mingyu had given him for emergencies (or really, in case Mingyu lost his, which was a semi-regular occurrence), and demanded Mingyu get dressed because they were going on a road trip.

For as long as Mingyu’s known him, which is more than half his life at seventeen years old, Wonwoo has never been a particularly spontaneous person. In the height of summer, he’d ordinarily be camped out in a PC bang, capitalising on the free air conditioning, fully immersed in his gaming. Wonwoo doesn’t do spontaneity or bursts of impulse and whimsy — that’s more Mingyu’s style and his refusal to waste a bright, cloudless day inside when he could be off somewhere chasing fun and excitement and adventure. 

And yet Wonwoo had broken into his house and his room and dragged him out of bed (pulled his covers off him, and yanked his pillow away, more accurately; Jeon Wonwoo doesn’t have the upper body strength to move a fully grown and sleeping Mingyu) all so they could go on this impromptu road trip. 

(Mingyu, sulky and still half-asleep, had refused to move another inch until Wonwoo told him where they were going.

Wonwoo had simply given him a strange little flicker of a smile, leaning right into his face — too close too much for a Mingyu who was barely awake.

_“Mingyu-ah, you trust me, don’t you?”_

And Mingyu, helpless, hopeless fool, had nodded dumbly. 

Because Wonwoo is his best friend, his favourite person, his partner in crime and mischief and laughter. Because he’d follow him to the ends of the universe with only mild pouting. He’d go anywhere Wonwoo asked simply because Wonwoo would be there too.

“Okay. _Okay_ , fine. But this better be worth it. I don’t want another musty old antique bookshop-hunting incident.” 

“I said I was sorry, Gyu. How was I supposed to know the old lady looked exactly like the one from that horror movie I explicitly warned you not to watch.” 

“I still see her in my nightmares, hyung. I can’t even read a book anymore without feeling the hair on my neck standing up.” 

“Since when do you read?” 

“I read  _books_ , hyung! Sometimes!”)

Wonwoo drives them to Taebaek, Gangwon-do, a destination Mingyu only learns of once they’re already there. 

As they’re driving through the empty provincial roads of Gangwon-do, Wonwoo reaches over to shake Mingyu softly awake. Mingyu groans softly, rolling over and trying valiantly to fall back asleep despite Wonwoo’s persistence.  

“Mingyu,” Wonwoo says lightly. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

Mingyu cracks his eyes open, slitted against the sunlight streaming in through the window, and instead of the tedious stretches of open field he’d been expecting, he’s greeted by a sea of yellow.

They’re sunflowers. An unending plane of bright, golden sunflowers with their faces turned to the sky, drinking in the light with their petals unfurled like miniature solar flares.

Mingyu lets out a tiny, strangled awed noise, and Wonwoo huffs out a chuckle at his side. He presses a button to lower the window for Mingyu and the smell of summer and fresh, open air spills into the car around them. 

“Told you.” He flicks Mingyu a small, sharp grin, readjusting his grip around the steering wheel as they take a turn that cuts right through a whole field of sunflowers almost taller than Mingyu. 

“The tall ones are called Moonwalkers.” 

“They’re so pretty.” Mingyu breathes, sticking his head further out the window so he can see better. 

Wonwoo hums, but doesn’t say anything, turning back to face the road with a smile that fills his face like soft sunlight filtering through the clouds. 

He’s in a blatantly good mood, and Mingyu doesn’t know why or how or what caused it, but he’s grateful for it. It’s been too long since he last saw Wonwoo this relaxed, this light-hearted and trouble-free. With entrance exams coming up next term, and all the pressure that’s been piled on Wonwoo’s shoulders by his family, his teachers – but above all by _himself —_  he’s barely had time to simply _live_ as the kid he still is.  

Sometimes Mingyu wants to tell him. He wants to turn to him and curl his fingers around Wonwoo’s like he used to when he was seven, and ten, and fourteen. Wants to tell him that he’s allowed to be young. That it’s alright for him to struggle, to be unsure of himself, to be unsteady. That even if he falls, it doesn’t matter because Mingyu’s here and Mingyu will _always_ be here to catch him. 

He wants to say it now, the urge like an insatiable itch underneath his skin he can’t seem to rid of himself of no matter how much he tells himself not to scratch it. But he wants so badly for Wonwoo to have sunflowers and blue skies and an afternoon of nothing but uninterrupted peace. It’s not worth breaking this moment for. 

They lay out on their picnic blanket on a spot Wonwoo chooses about forty feet away from the car, on an open field right beside the edge of the sunflowers. Wonwoo is sprawled on a folding chair, book tucked in his lap, and it’s admittedly a little boring being stuck with only his thoughts as Wonwoo reads. But Wonwoo looks so blissful when he reads – there’s always this look of peace to him when he has a book in his hands, his mind someplace faraway, somewhere built entirely by words and the strength of his imagination. Mingyu doesn’t have the heart to interrupt him simply to be entertained.

He leans back on the palms he has propped up behind him, his legs stretched out before him, and soaks in the light breeze passing through the air. 

The idea strikes him as he turns his face skywards, sunwards, the heat warming him down to his bones.  

Mingyu shoots to his feet, wiping the remnants of stickiness from his palms onto his pants in his eagerness. “Be right back, hyung. I’m gonna… go look at something.” And then he’s tearing off before Wonwoo can utter a word of acknowledgement. 

The sunflowers are beautiful, but flowers that grow as beautifully as sunflowers do — heliotropic; radiant, their faces turned skywards to soak in the sun — aren’t meant to be plucked for human consumption. The tiny patches of wildflowers growing at the edges of the fields are charming and aesthetically lovely in their own simple way. He picks the brightest ones, keeping their stems long so he can bunch them together in his hand. And then it’s merely a matter of arranging them so the colours are spread out, a whole kaleidoscope of bright colours in myriad forms. 

He’s fighting back a grin when he bounds back over to Wonwoo’s side, eyes twinkling brightly and his whole face lit up with anticipation in spite of his best efforts to tamp down on his excitement.

“Hyung.” Mingyu calls softly as he steps onto the picnic blanket. “I brought you something.”

Wonwoo glances up, the amusement in his eyes bleeding into wonder as Mingyu takes the bouquet out from behind his back. 

“Mingyu.” It sounds like there’s a question in there, but Wonwoo doesn’t say anything else, and Mingyu’s cheeks are warm, so, so warm as he grins and holds out the flowers to Wonwoo.

“You didn’t have to do this.” Wonwoo murmurs as he takes them, a note of rare bashfulness to his voice as he brings them up to his face, sinking slightly in a very cute motion that narrows his shoulders and renders him almost small. Jeon Wonwoo isn’t someone who flusters easily, but Mingyu’s proud to say he’s one of the few people in existence who has ever managed to elicit such a reaction from him.

“People give flowers that mean something, right? Flower language, or whatever.” Mingyu curls up on his toes, his voice small, but sure. “Well. I handpicked them, so, I get to decide what they mean.”

Mingyu smiles, his heart visible in the beaming, sun-bright curve of his lips. “These ones say: let’s be strong together.”

Wonwoo goes still. And then a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, spreading slowly until it’s unfolding into a grin, one set ablaze by an open, boundless affection.

“Mingyu-yah. _Thank you._ ”

Mingyu dips his head, and it hurts, almost, the way looking directly into the sun for too long, or at all, hurts. 

The truth is, Mingyu only gets rainbow sherbet Baskin Robbins ice cream despite its hellish sweetness because it’s Wonwoo’s favourite.

The truth is, he only agreed to drive out here on a whole three-and-a-half-hour trip to Taebaek where the sunflowers are, where Wonwoo’s favourite flowers are, because Wonwoo could ask anything of him, and he’d do it in a heartbeat. Unthinkingly. Unquestioningly.

He doesn’t know what he wants to do yet with his life, doesn’t know who or what he’ll be when he grows up, finishes high school, becomes a fully-fledged adult. All he knows is that when he looks into his future for the next ten, twenty, fifty years, he sees only Wonwoo. For now, he looks at Wonwoo beneath the sun, the red of his shirt the colour of dusk, his smile golden, sun-kissed and breath-taking, and something in him aches to capture him, immortalise him, if only for a moment. But here, _here_ , is something even art would fail to do justice to. 

There’s another meaning for the flowers. There’s another meaning and Mingyu wants so badly to be brave enough to say it.

Mingyu has been loud, clumsy gracelessness, latent disasters and accident-prone limbs his entire life. Forever exposing too much and saying too little of anything that really matters. But if there were ever a moment made for cinematic, perfect confessions, this would be it.

Mingyu chooses wildflowers, not sunflowers, to give to Wonwoo, because he gets to write their meaning into existence. He gives Wonwoo wildflowers on this beautiful, picturesque summer morning, the sky bluer than he’s ever seen it over a sea of Wonwoo’s favourite sunflowers. He picks wildflowers because they’re the only kind Wonwoo won’t know the meaning of. 

_I think I’m in love with you._

 

**AGE 7, SPRING**

  

The midday sun is warm and golden, everything about the sky stretching ahead in endless promise makes the unextraordinary Saturday seem fuller, somehow bigger, with possibility. With his mom and his baby sister out shopping, and his small list of household chores for the day done unusually early, Mingyu escapes to his favourite place in the world: the park around the corner from his house.

It’s small and unassuming, nothing much at first glance, but there’s a playground, a swing set, and enough trees dotting the grass and winding bike trail to offer shade on a sunny day after an afternoon’s worth of running wild. Usually, there are some mothers and their squealing babies, pink cheeks slick with sunscreen, and a few other kids here soaking up the sunlight and freedom of the weekend. Today, there’s just him. Or at least, that’s what Mingyu thinks until he steps onto the grass beyond the wooden post marking the border of the park. 

It’s Mingyu who spots him first. The boy sitting beneath the shade, cross-legged, this look of fervent concentration on his face Mingyu’s never seen on a boy his age before. 

He tilts his head, eyes widening in realisation when he recognises the boy as someone he’s seen at school before. A third or fourth grader, perhaps.

Mingyu drops his football onto the grass, his foot lifting to rest on the top of the ball. Football is more fun with someone else to play, but the boy looks so deep in thought, lost in the pages of his book, it’d feel wrong to interrupt him. Mingyu spikes the ball a few feet in front of him and chases after it.

He does practice drills, dribbling the ball from one end of the park to the other, practices juggling and tricks and then kicking goals at his makeshift goalpost between two trees. At one point, a stray kick sends the ball sailing through the air wildly off-target, landing not far from the boy with the book.

“Hey!” Mingyu calls out. The boy blinks up, startled out of his concentration as he squints over at Mingyu. Mingyu points at his ball by the boy’s feet.

The boy closes his book and gets up to grab the ball so he can toss it back over to Mingyu. Mingyu stops the ball short with his foot and tucks it underneath his arm as he heads over towards where the boy is taking his seat on the grass again.

“What’re you reading?” He blurts out, curiosity overcoming his typical instinct for politeness, and the voice in the back of his head that sounds like his dad scolding him about _manners_.

The boy considers him for a moment, as if weighing up answering Mingyu’s question against the peace and quiet of returning to his book. “It’s called _The Little Prince_.” 

Mingyu’s never met anyone who _reads_ in their own time, _for fun_ , before. It’s kind of cool. He tells the boy this, and he jerks his head up a fraction, surprise glinting in his dark eyes.

“Really? You… don’t think it’s weird or anything?”

Mingyu wrinkles his nose. “Why would it be weird?”

The boy shakes his head, eyes flickering down to the page. Maybe someone’s called him weird for it before, but Mingyu thinks whoever said that must’ve had a pretty boring definition of weird.

“Can I sit here?” Mingyu gestures at the grass beside him, in the shade beneath the biggest tree in the park.

The boy shrugs. “You can sit wherever you want.”

“I wanna sit here.” Mingyu says, bright-eyed and honest, crossing his legs like the boy beside him. “But you can tell me to go if you like. If I’ distracting you.”

“No,” the other boy says, quicker than Mingyu had expected him to. He blinks his sharp eyes, biting at his lip a little. “No, it’s okay. You can stay if you want.”

“I’m Mingyu, by the way.”

“Wonwoo.” Says Wonwoo.

“Hey,” Mingyu says, spine straightening excitedly as he breaks out into a grin, spinning his football up into the air. “You wanna see something cool?”

This is how it begins. Two boys in a park beneath the afternoon sun, the smell of spring tingeing the air like the long, endless unspooling of possibility.

 

 

 

  

 **AGE 7, AUTUMN**  

 

Light and sound move differently in the domed hallways of Coex Aquarium, bouncing and refracting off glass, bending around the curved surfaces of hundreds of display tanks. According to the huge LED screen near the entrance, there are over 40,000 sea creatures from over 650 species here in Korea’s largest marine theme park. There’s sharks and stingrays and giant turtles swimming above him, gliding through the water completely oblivious to the children clustered at the walls of the tank, giggling and pointing out the weird looking fish. 

All of this would usually be irresistible to Mingyu. Except in all the excitement of the Marine Touch Lab and the Kid’s Aquarium, getting to put his hands in the tank and touch starfish and anemones and geckos, Mingyu had lost track of Wonwoo and his Mom. 

It’s been minutes, or maybe hours, he doesn’t know. Time is a limited concept when you’re a kid and your days are divided between “school” and “not school”, bed time, play time, meal time. Mingyu’s responsible, a dutiful son and elder brother and he’s usually pretty aware of where his mom is when they’re out in public so he can stick close to her and not accidentally break anything, or knock something over, or cause any general sort of chaos. He swears, he’d been right beside them by the touching tanks, pointing at the anemone and its little multi-coloured tentacles (just like the one from _Finding Nemo_ ), and then in the next second, they were gone. 

His rising panic renders the floor-to-ceiling glass of the Underwater Tunnel strange and disconcerting, the murky underwater shapes and silhouettes towering eerily over him. It’s not the first time he’s gotten lost before — Mingyu’s easily distracted and excitable, but it usually isn’t this hard to find his way back to his mom before she starts raising the alarms and contacting security.

He’s starting to get worried, not to mention slightly embarrassed at the thought of Wonwoo-hyung knows he’s capable of getting lost despite being this old.

There’s heat pooling at the backs of his eyes, urgent and burning, not because he’s _scared_ — he’s not a _baby_ anymore — or anything but because he’s frustrated. All by himself in this crowd of other children and adults and screaming babies, probably looking lost and stupid, like some poor dumb kid who’s too old to be getting lost, and what if Wonwoo and his mom _can’t_ find him and then he has to find some security guard and have his name broadcast over the PA, how _humiliating_ would —

“ _Mingyu_?”

His heart stutters, shudders to a halt, and then slams back into gear. He runs, almost stumbling over his feet in his hurry to get to Wonwoo.

“Hyung! _Hyung_.” Mingyu cries out, relief washing over him and lighting him up like a tiny sun.

“ _There you are_ , we were — _mmph_.” Mingyu collides into him, all skinny limbs and post-adrenaline laced with fading panic. Wonwoo lets out a soft huff of laughter, arms circling around his shoulders at the last moment to keep them from falling. Mingyu buries his face in Wonwoo’s shoulders, ashamed but also so, _so_ relieved. Wonwoo gives his shoulders a light squeeze. “You big baby.” 

Mingyu sniffles, he’s still _not crying_ , but the miniature rollercoaster of getting lost, spending those few minutes trapped in fear and alarm, and finding Wonwoo again has made his pulse spike and his breaths all tangled up in his throat.

“Your mom and I were looking for you everywhere.” Wonwoo sifts his fingers through the hair at the back of Mingyu’s head, a soothing, absentminded gesture as Mingyu clings tighter to Wonwoo’s waist. “Where’d you go?”

“I don’t know, hyung. I — there were _sharks_ and stingrays and the tunnel, and when I came back to try and find you I couldn’t _see_ you or mom…”

Wonwoo pulls back slightly, hands on his shoulders, and he shakes Mingyu playfully. “From now on, you stick with me, okay? No more running off on your own.”

Mingyu nods, a little tearful but hiding it valiantly. 

“Okay, _Mingyu-yah_?”

 _I’m not a baby_ , Mingyu wants to protest, because Wonwoo is looking at him and talking to him in a way that’s eerily reminiscent of his mom when she’s exasperated and bemused but trying not to laugh at him when he’s done something he needs to be scolded for.

“ _Okay._ ”

“Good. Besides, we still have the rest of the aquarium to explore. Why don’t you show me which sharks you saw, hm? Maybe they’ll even remember you froom before.”

Wonwoo holds out his hand, and Mingyu looks at him, embarrassment and warmth and fondness swimming around in his chest like the sea creatures he’s spent all day marvelling at. Wonwoo has this soft smile curving at the very outermost edges of his lips, his eyes are bright, the dark of them catching every flicker of light from the glass and water around them.

Mingyu takes Wonwoo’s outstretched hand. It’s colder than Mingyu expected, but his fingers fit perfectly with Mingyu’s when he laces them together. 

 

 

 

 

**AGE 8, SPRING**

  

The hand-holding becomes a thing after that. Not on purpose, and never with any degree of deliberation, but Mingyu instinctively finds himself reaching for Wonwoo. Their hands curl around each other, fingers sliding into the spaces between Wonwoo’s whenever they’re close enough to touch.

They’re not puzzle pieces, Mingyu decides one afternoon after art class, his favourite subject in the whole wide world. They’re more like origami, like the little paper cranes they made out of the special brightly coloured paper in class today. Nothing spectacular when you start out but folded together here and there at the right seams, turned into something beautiful and inimitable. So elegantly constructed that it's impossible to imagine the crane looking any other way now that its wings and beak and tail have taken shape. It’s the same way he folds his hand into Wonwoo’s — it feels _right_ , and warm and natural.

They wait for each other after school by the gates, chasing after each other when one is feeling particularly mischievous and tears ahead. Mingyu, breathless from laughter and shouts of cheating, runs after Wonwoo. Wonwoo always lets him catch up, red-faced and beaming, lets him take his hand and swing their interlocked fingers between them as they take the long way home from school.

When the weather’s good, they’ll wind through the back streets, on foot or on their bikes, racing each other to an imaginary finish line with the high stakes of paying for drinks and snacks from the corner shop convenience store.

Aji greets Wonwoo before she greets Mingyu sometimes, twisting around their ankles and barking for his attention until he crouches down and lets her express her affection and enthusiasm at seeing him by licking at all his fingers. Given the choice, Wonwoo prefers spending afternoons hanging out at Mingyu’s house.

Mingyu’s only ever been to the Jeons’ a handful of times since they became friends but he supposes having Aji around does makes playing at his house the superior option. Wonwoo might live in a place that’s three, or five, times bigger than his, but at the Kim’s, you don’t have to worry about making noise, or mess, or being too loud — all of which seems to be frowned upon in Wonwoo’s household.

Wonwoo doesn’t talk about his dad often, but Mingyu gets the impression he’s always busy like most fathers tend to be, like his own dad is. His mom is always perfectly put together, red lipstick and hair coiffed, like an actress from the movies. She’s beautiful and statuesque, and it’s not hard to tell where Wonwoo gets his long, straight nose and sharp, black eyes from. 

But the Jeon household is a cold one; the chill of the atmosphere manifests as more than just the elegant architectural features and minimalist interior design, it’s a palpable coldness. Wonwoo’s house looks like it belongs in a magazine centrefold, not as a real house in a neighbourhood that Mingyu lives in. Not a house that’s _lived in_ at all. He’d always assumed that living in a big, expensive house would be like a fairy tale come true, that it’d be like waking up and discovering he’s been a long-lost prince of a forgotten kingdom all along. He never pictured how lonely it could be, living in a house that big, with no one to fill it, hollowed with empty rooms lined with big, forbidden, expensive things so easy to break. Mingyu’s house is messy sometimes, and loud, disorganised and cluttered like a house that belongs to a mother that’s mostly raising her two children alone with her husband so frequently away on business trips. But he wouldn’t trade its warmth and noise for the world.

Wonwoo eats dinner at their house more often than not. He sleeps over sometimes on weekends and during the holidays, stays for three-day sleepovers during summer break. The only times they’re really ever apart are during class, or when Wonwoo has Hapkido practice and Mingyu has football training. Other than that, they’re seemingly always together, heads bent and whispering, or talking, or laughing together. They have Their Park, they have the local bowling alley and arcade, Wonwoo’s favourite bookshop in town, the convenience store they like to buy snacks from because the ahjussi who owns it has a soft spot for them, the alleyway where Wonwoo feeds his stray cats, the ice skating rink in Winter, the spot by the Han River under the shade, and the beach in Summer. 

Wonwoo fits into Mingyu’s life like he was always meant to be there. Someone as essential, and significant, to him as family, as blood.

Mingyu had known within a week of knowing Wonwoo that he’d be someone special to him. He’d known with that childlike certainty that kids have about the world around them that Wonwoo would be important to him.

It hadn’t been until his halmeoni had turned to him one day nearly half a year after he’d met Wonwoo and asked, _Who’s this Wonwoo you’re always talking about?_ that he’d realised. _Oh_. This is what it feels like to have a best friend. This is what it feels like to find that one person in the entire universe to call yours.

It’s the feeling he gets in his chest when he sees Wonwoo, a feeling that can’t be described save for in the yellow-gold and liquid amber of sunrise and the sweetness of molten honey. 

As if his heart is saying _oh_. There he is. _That’s my person._

 

 

 

**AGE 10, WINTER**

  

“ _Why_ are we doing this?”

Mingyu, very pointedly, doesn’t look at Wonwoo. Because when Wonwoo has that blunt, focused look in his eyes that seems to say _I know exactly what you’re going to say but I’m asking anyway_ it always leaves him feeling a little helpless.

“ _Because_.” Mingyu replies. “Everyone in my class has seen it.”

“So? Who cares if they have?” Wonwoo says. Wonwoo doesn’t hold much stock in anyone else’s opinions, except Mingyu. It really shouldn’t make him feel so pleased to know that but he can’t help the spark of satisfaction in him that jumps and sings whenever Wonwoo acknowledges this as a fact. 

“ _I_ care, obviously.” Mingyu purses his lips, busying himself with the DVD and switching the channels on the TV to AV1. “They’ve all seen it and I can’t be the last person in the class who _hasn’t_. I’ll be the class chicken.”

“That’s because you _are_.”

Mingyu huffs in betrayal, gaze sliding over to shoot Wonwoo a dirty look. “Yes, but nobody _else_ has to know that.”

Besides, he’s already pressing the play button on the DVD player. Too late to have second thoughts now.

“It’s meant to be the scariest horror movie of the year. You’re going to have nightmares for _weeks_.” 

Mingyu winces, already on edge without Wonwoo’s sound logic and rationality to back up the sense of impending dread crawling through him. “ _Shut up_ , don’t you think I know that?”

“It’s not worth it, Gyu.” Wonwoo says as Mingyu comes over to the couch to take his seat beside him amidst the fortress of blankets and pillows amassed on top of it. “You can just read the Wikipedia summary, or the IMDb synopsis, online. I can’t handle you freaking out for the next two weeks to a month all because you wanted to watch some stupid scary movie.”

“Well. Look, at least if I die you’ll be able to avenge me and clear my name.”

“Clear your name of _what_? Being literally scared to death?”

“ _Shhh_.” Mingyu whispers, muffling Wonwoo with a pillow to the face. “It’s starting.”

The movie starts off deceptively normal. It’s a story about a family that moves into a new house, as most typical horror movies are. (Mingyu wouldn’t know, he’s never watched a scary movie past the halfway point before.) He’s almost convinced that his classmates are all secret cowards and the movie isn’t going be that bad until the first victim dies.

After that, everything goes to hell. 

Every slight shadow and whispery demon voice makes Mingyu flinch. His pulse skyrockets with the slightest tremor of foreboding background music and nearly jackhammers itself into cardiac arrest at the actual jump-scares.

At one point, when his full-bodied flinch makes it into a whole-bodied shriek, Wonwoo takes pity on him and holds out his hand. Mingyu clamps his fingers around it like an iron vice, knuckles bone-white to match the ashen cast of his face.

When the next scare comes, Mingyu latches onto Wonwoo’s entire arm, burying his face in his shoulder with a whimper of utter, unadulterated despair. Wonwoo leans back into the couch, and Mingyu follows his movement, burrowing into his side until his blanket is sprawled on top of Wonwoo, too, and he’s clutching at their interlocked hands for dear life. They stay like this for the rest of the movie, Mingyu jumping and letting out muffled yelps from behind the blanket drawn right up to his face. 

“I knew this was going to happen.” Wonwoo says, when the movie finally ends and the credits start to roll. Mingyu looks a little dazed, _shell-shocked_. Wonwoo frowns, nudging at Mingyu’s side, and then shaking at his shoulder when he doesn’t respond. 

“God, Mingyu. C’mon. Bed time.” Mingyu trembles, startled by the sound of himself crying out as Wonwoo moves to leave the couch.

“This was a terrible idea.” Wonwoo hisses under his breath, tugging at Mingyu’s steel grip to no avail. “I’ll give it three or so weeks until you’re over it, and then I am _never_ letting you live this down. Ever.” 

Wonwoo tugs him to his feet, and Mingyu sags in his grip bonelessly, limp as a sack of potatoes.

With much effort and a lot of muttered cursing, Wonwoo manages to manhandle the both of them out of the living room. They move like a conjoined monster with seven limbs because Mingyu has yet to let go of Wonwoo’s hand, and when they finally make it to Mingyu’s room, the only thing that gets a reaction from him is the sight of the shadows lurking underneath his bed.

“You big baby,” Wonwoo murmurs, softening as he sees the tearful look Mingyu gives him. He reaches for Mingyu’s face with his other hand, brushing away the tear tracks stained on his cheek with his thumb.

“I’m here, aren’t I? I’ll protect you.”

Mingyu blinks, chokes back a small sob. “You promise?” It’s the first thing he’s said since the movie ended.

Wonwoo tips his forehead against Mingyu’s, looks right into Mingyu’s big, wet eyes and promises to fight the whole world for him if need be. “ _I promise._ ”

They get into bed, Mingyu huddled up beside Wonwoo, pressed right against his side, their hands gripped tightly between them. It’s not exactly _comfortable_ , but if this is what Mingyu needs to feel comfortable enough to fall asleep, then so be it. Wonwoo can sacrifice a single sleepless night and the high likelihood of waking up with a crick in his neck if it means Mingyu manages to get at least an hour of decent sleep tonight.

Wonwoo’s on the verge of falling asleep when he hears Mingyu rustling beside him, squirming and shifting around on the bed.

He waits for the inevitable to come.

“Hyung.” 

“ _Nnn._ ” Other than the indistinct hum, Wonwoo doesn’t make another sound.

“ _Hyung._ ”

Wonwoo exhales. “Yes, Mingyu?”

“I need to pee.”

“ _And?_ ”

“What if there’s a demon in the bathroom that’ll get me if I accidentally look in the mirror?” 

“There’s no _demon_ in the bathroom, Gyu.”

“ _What if there is._ ”

Wonwoo forces a sigh past his lips, reminds himself that this is his best friend, one of the people he cares about most in this world. 

“Fine. I’ll come with you.”

“Thanks, hyung.”

“The moment you stop being so terrified I am going to give you _so_ much shit for this.”

“I love you, hyung. If I die, remember I love you.”

“ _Dear_ _god_ _, Mingyu._ ”

 

 

 

 

**AGE 10, SUMMER**

 

“Godzilla vs. the T-Rex from _Jurassic Park_ : Who Would Win?”

“Easy, Godzilla. Even science and evolution can’t beat a nuclear holocaust radiated lizard.” 

“Okay. Do you think stars have feelings?” 

“Maybe. Who’s to say what they‘ve seen out there in deep space, billions of years before we were even a speck of dust in the universe, can’t be defined by something as small and human as a _feeling_?” 

“Unicorns could be real, we’ve just never seen them before because magic hates humans.” 

“Agreed. If history has taught us anything it’s that humans ruin everything they touch.”

“Well, we made some good art and, like, books, right? What about Van Gogh?”

“ _Starry Night_ _was_ very good.”

“And _Sunflowers_. Don’t forget the sunflowers.”

“Of course not.”

“Who would win in a fight: Kaneki Ken, or Levi Ackerman?”

“Kaneki. He’s the One-Eyed King for a reason.”

“ _One Piece_ or _Naruto_?”

“ _One Piece_.”

“Dogs or cats?”

“Both.” 

“Liar. You like cats more.” 

“Still both.”

“Would you rather eat seafood for the rest of your life or only be allowed to read shoujo mangas?”

“Read shoujo mangas, I guess.”

“Would you rather never be able to pet a cat again or never be able to play more than five minutes of a video game without dying?”

“The second one.”

“ _See?!_ You love cats.”

“I like Aji.”

“Aw, hyung. I’m sure she likes you, too.”

  

 

 

 

**AGE 8, SUMMER**

   

Wonwoo’s favourite colour is blue. His favourite Pokémon is a Suicune. His favourite manga is One Piece. He likes cats. His blood type is A. 

Mingyu learns all this information and more within the first week of meeting Wonwoo. At first, the other boy seems mildly surprised to find Mingyu falling into step with him on the walk to school, and waving at him at lunch from the playground before jogging over to ask where they’re going to eat today. After day four, on Thursday, he stops looking so astonished every time Mingyu shows up with a round of new questions and curiosities.

Despite their differences on the surface — Mingyu’s favourite colour is red, he likes dogs, his favourite manga is Slam Dunk — they match in all the most important ways.

Mingyu’s inquisitive nature is never met with frustration, or annoyance, like he’s encountered from adults, and some kids. Wonwoo never seems to mind that Mingyu has so much to say, and so many things to ask about. And Wonwoo knows more than anyone Mingyu’s ever met. He certainly _reads_ more than anyone Mingyu’s ever met.

They spend all lunchtime one day arguing about Pokémon types and disagreeing vehemently on whose favourite Pokémon would win in a battle. They don’t agree on everything, Pokémon battles included, but Mingyu delights in Wonwoo’s company all the same. He finds himself impatient when something funny happens in class or he overhears a joke Wonwoo would like, finds himself wishing Wonwoo were here right now, right this second, so he could tell him and see his nose wrinkle and his face scrunch up as he laughs with his whole body the way he does when a joke is really, _really_ funny.

He saves all his best stories for Wonwoo. All the best parts of his day, the little things that remind him of Wonwoo, the doodle he drew in class that looks a little bit like Wonwoo if he were a cat that wore glasses.

“Hey, Wonwoo-hyung.” Mingyu says one day, apropos of nothing while they’re hanging out at Their Park, swinging idly back and forth on the swing set.

“Yeah, Mingyu?” Wonwoo tilts his face up from the ground to meet his eyes.

It rushes out of Mingyu all at once: “Are we… do you think — would you say we’re… _best friends_?” 

Wonwoo blinks, taking in his words. And at first Mingyu thinks he’s stopping to process them, to think of something to say the way he does when he’s choosing what words he thinks will best explain what he’s thinking.

But then his face lights up, an incandescent smile curving on his lips so bright it feels like Mingyu should be squinting at it like he does the sun.

“Of course we are.” Wonwoo says. “What _else_ have we been doing all this time?” 

Mingyu laughs, his nervousness swallowed up by the huge, boundless joy pouring through him, sweeping him up in this bubbly, liquid happiness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 **AGE 11, AUTUMN**  

 

Every so often, they meet up in the local bowling alley and arcade and spend the afternoon burning through all the spare change and pocket money they’ve saved up over the last few weeks or so to win enough tickets to buy whatever ridiculous prize Mingyu has set his sights on this time around.

Wonwoo likes to claim he’s too old to care about the charade of collecting tickets for disproportionately insignificant rewards, as if _winning prizes_ is a juvenile thing and not a test of skill, patience, and endurance. Mingyu _saw_ the look on Wonwoo’s face last time he picked out this giant stuffed cat with a bowtie and gave it to Wonwoo with some transparent excuse that he wouldn’t have anywhere in his room to put it.

You don’t _outgrow_ the sheer satisfaction of a well-earned victory. Or giant cat plushies, as it turns out.

It’s a win-win scenario, in the end. Wonwoo likes gaming, and Mingyu likes winning. Which is ironic, considering that in most of the two-player games they play, Mingyu’s success rate is about fifteen per cent to Wonwoo’s eighty-five. And he’s still partially convinced that Wonwoo only _lets_ him win occasionally so as not to permanently, irrevocably damage his pride while his brain is still developing things like self-esteem and confidence.

Even if he really is just letting him win sometimes, Mingyu wouldn’t trade losing to him nearly every game for anything. 

It’s fun just to play, to see Wonwoo light up for the sake of something as stereotypically boyish and self-indulgent as arcade games. And Mingyu’s competitive streak still serves him well enough on the single player games when they split up after they get tired of Street Fighter (Mingyu, predictably, lost 2-8). Mingyu heads to the Formula One racing simulation while Wonwoo saunters over to a shooting game.

When they regroup again, Wonwoo’s got his tickets looped around his neck. Mingyu’s are stuffed into his pockets, his jacket brimming with little bright yellow tickets.

“I’ve decided what I want to play for,” Wonwoo says, grinning.

Mingyu cocks his head, brows arched in a gesture for Wonwoo to go on. “Oh yeah?” 

“If I win this final round, I want to see what’s in your sketchbook that you never let me look at.”

For one wild, panicked moment, all Mingyu can think is: _no, oh no, no no no_ no _what if he’s seen it has he seen it what if he found it_. And then he catches Wonwoo’s eye, mind whirring faster than the speed of light to work faster than the terror freezing him motionless, and realises that’s curiosity on his face and not awkwardness, or contempt, or ridicule. Wonwoo really hasn’t seen it yet. His sketchbook. The One That Wonwoo Will _Never_ Be Allowed To See. For very specific Wonwoo-related reasons.

Mingyu chokes out a frantic laugh, one that sounds more like a cornered animal’s cry for help rather than a sound any human could make.

“Good one, hyung. _Hilarious._ ”

Wonwoo cocks his head at him, eyes dancing with subtleties of humour and amusement that Mingyu doesn’t want even touch, let alone acknowledge right now.

“I mean it. I’m curious, and we both know it can't possibly be just _dirty drawings_.”

“You know what they say about curiosity and cats, hyung…”

Wonwoo arches a single brow. “That satisfaction brought it back?” 

“Curse you and your limitless knowledge of useless idioms no one knows or cares about.” 

“You’re trying to change the topic, Mingyu.” There’s that playfulness again, the light, saccharine lilt of his voice that makes this all sound like a game. A joke. A harmless repartee of light-hearted banter rather than the potential exposure of a crushing, damning secret. _It’s not even really_ — ‘secret’ is too concrete a word for it. The contents of the sketchbook aren’t _taboo_ or forbidden; it’s nothing he’d be ashamed of having accidentally revealed. He hasn’t… _drawn anything_ incriminating.

It’s just… embarrassing, is all.

Owning a sketchbook that has drawings of your best friend in it on every other page. Character studies of his face, and profile, his hands and eyes; pictures of him crouched down to feed (his) stray cats, or bent over a desk fast asleep, or focused on a book open on his lap. It’d be awkward, having to explain why, and how, and when he’d drawn all of these. Enough to fill nearly an entire sketchbook.

The one he slams shut whenever Wonwoo gets close enough to catch a glimpse. The one he’s alluded to, up till now, consisting of slightly dirty drawings that no one but him has any business looking at. 

“Alright.” Mingyu says, lips forming an uneven smile. “ _You got me._ ”

He’s a bad liar, and they both know it. But a gamble’s a gamble. “If you win, I’ll let you take a look. If _I_ win, I get first player rights for the rest of the week.”

They shake on it. In the end, and by some unbelievable stroke of fate or karmic mercy bestowed upon him, Mingyu wins. Ever the graceful winner, Wonwoo picks out a giant Pikachu plushie from the wall of prizes with their winnings and gives it to Mingyu to keep.

And for a while there, the sketchbook is entirely forgotten.

 

 

 

 

**AGE 7, AUTUMN**

One Friday after school, Wonwoo slips his hand into Mingyu’s with a mischievous glint in his eyes and tells him he has something to show him, and despite Mingyu’s protests, refuses to tell him what it is until they get there.

In Mingyu’s overactive imagination, the zigzagging, meandering detour Wonwoo takes him on to the alleyway they arrive at takes at least half an hour, during which he swears he sees at least half a dozen strangers shadowing them and the temperature dropped several degrees. In reality, the alleyway is only a few blocks from the midway point between their houses and when Wonwoo lets go of his hand to crouch down at the mouth of the small street tucked in between two apartment blocks, Mingyu’s too distracted by the softness on Wonwoo’s face to notice the small creature slipping out of the side of the alley.

“Hi, Lulu.” Wonwoo smiles, cheeks bunching up as he reaches down to stroke a finger down the nose of the tabby cat that’s suddenly appeared at his feet. Lulu, Mingyu presumes, meows back in greeting.

“Don’t worry, I brought your food.”

Wonwoo shoulders off his backpack and zips it open, taking out a small plastic bag with what appears to be strips of chicken. Mingyu watches the whole exchange go down, Wonwoo unzipping the bag and holding the chicken in his own palm for the cat to eat out of. 

Wonwoo literally has a stray cat _eating out of his palm_. Mingyu’s brain can’t even process the picture without wanting to melt into a puddle.

“Isn’t that, uh, _dangerous_?” Is what he manages to blurt out.

“No.” Wonwoo scoffs. “I mean, _maybe_. But I haven’t gotten rabies yet. And Lulu’s so gentle. She’d never bite or scratch me — you wouldn’t do that, _would you_ , sweetheart?” 

Mingyu blinks, and moves a step closer.

“You can pet her if you want.” Wonwoo says, without turning to him, preoccupied with petting Lulu’s ears. “Just let her sniff your fingers first.” 

Mingyu approaches slowly, as if he’s afraid that the cat will spook and disappear. He ducks down, crouching like Wonwoo, and reaches out a hand for Lulu to smell.

Lulu gives him a sharp look, as if to gauge his character and his worthiness as a boy and potential food source from appearance alone, before bending to sniff at him. She must deem him acceptable because the next thing Mingyu knows, he’s stroking a hesitant hand over the top of her head and there’s this fuzziness in his chest that feels like being wrapped in warm laundry fresh out of the dryer.

“Cute, right?”

“Yeah.” _Cute_ is an understatement. So painfully adorable his chest is physically aching might be a more accurate description for it. 

“How long have you been feeding her?” Mingyu asks. 

“A couple months now. Sometimes her friends come, too.” Wonwoo grins as Lulu nuzzles her forehead against the backs of his fingers and _wow_ , this cat really does like Wonwoo.

“Wow.” Mingyu says, at a loss for words and any adequate reaction other than quiet suffering at how agonisingly endearing this whole moment has been.

Wonwoo beams at him, and then turns back to giving his full attention to the cat, stroking his hand down over her head and her neck as she begins to purr. 

 

 

 

 

**AGE 11, SUMMER**

  

“Read me something from your book.”

It’s a familiar demand and an even more common sight by now: Mingyu sprawled out on the grass of their park (it’s _Theirs_ now on account of the fact that they’ve spent all summer since second grade playing in it, mapping every inch of it in their imaginations, marking their territory), fingers and toes stretching in opposite directions; Wonwoo with a book in his lap, head bent over the pages.

They’re an endless study in contrasts: the sweat and dirt streaked across Mingyu’s skin, tanned a light golden from football practice and afternoons spent training and running around in the sun, starkly juxtaposed with Wonwoo, who’s taken up Hapkido with his younger brother but otherwise prefers to stay indoors reading or playing video games out of the sun. 

Wonwoo glances at Mingyu, his eyes gleaming with that tell-tale flicker of amusement that Mingyu chases after like the winning goal in the last half of a game. For a few seconds, it looks like he’s going to ignore Mingyu and go back to reading in solitude.

He concedes, nevertheless:

“’ _To you I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world..._ ’”

“Foxes can’t _talk_.”

Wonwoo huffs, rolling his eyes exasperatedly, ever more adult-like in his displays of impatience.

“It’s magical realism. The Rose and the Snake talk, too.”

Mingyu wrinkles his brow, a look of confusion shading his eyes as he turns to Wonwoo and his favourite book open in his hands. 

“What’s this book about anyway?”

“It’s about an artist.” Wonwoo explains, closing the book with his finger tucked in it to mark his spot. “Or a pilot who wanted to be an artist.”

“Really?” Mingyu perks up. “I think I’d want to be an artist if I ever grew up.” At nine years old, Mingyu speaks about his dreams and future aspirations with the gravity of someone who understands what it means to _hunger_ for something like ambition, but the casual nonchalance of a child who still trades in stories and imaginary things.

“What do you mean _if_?”

Mingyu props his chin on his hands, kicking his feet back and forth as he shoots Wonwoo a teasing look. “What, you never heard of _Peter Pan_?”

Wonwoo just laughs, shakes his head.

“Anyway, I don’t know if I want to grow up.” Mingyu declares.

“That’s stupid, everyone has to grow up. It’s biology.” 

“Everyone’s always talking about what they want to be when they’re older, what they’ll do. Sounds painfully boring if you ask me. All that work. And just think of the _exams_.” Mingyu lets a faux shudder ripple through him, features twisted in disdain. 

“That’s why you have to become something you really love. That’s what dreams are for.”

Mingyu doesn’t know how or when Wonwoo became so smart and worldly at the ripe old age of ten, but nearly everything he says, especially in that steady, sure voice of his sounds like its spoken with the weight of ancient wisdom. 

“What’s _your_ dream?”

Wonwoo goes quiet, but it’s one of those silences Mingyu knows is measured out with thought, and careful deliberation. It’s another one of those things Mingyu finds infinitely admirable about Wonwoo — the way he listens, _really_ listens when people speak, regardless of whether they’re an adult, an authority figure, or another kid, even a dongsaeng like Mingyu. Mingyu’s used to having his brain-to-mouth stream-of-consciousness patterns of speaking ignored and dismissed, filtered out into meaningless chatter. It’s strange and wonderful to have someone like Wonwoo who’s so _sharp_ and intelligent, so grown up in the way he thinks and sees the world, find something worthwhile in listening to him. 

“I don’t know for sure yet,” Wonwoo says softly. His eyes dark and heavy, full of a wisdom, a sadness Mingyu knows he’s too young for, too kind for. “I just know I don’t want to be stuck in an office for the rest of my life doing something I hate.”

You shouldn’t be, Mingyu thinks. _You won’t be._ Someone with a mind as infinite and limitless as Jeon Wonwoo’s doesn’t deserve to be trapped in a cage of bureaucracy. He deserves poetry, and music, and romance, and _beauty_. All the things that Mingyu pictures when he thinks of Wonwoo, and the things he loves, the things he inspires in Mingyu to want.

_Someone who sees the world as brightly and full of possibility as Jeon Wonwoo does deserves the chance to chase his dreams, to make them real._

“I want there to be art in my life.” 

More than Peter Pan, more than _The Little Prince_ and his Fox, Mingyu thinks that the sound of Wonwoo talking about his dreams sounds a little like magic.

 

 

 

**AGE 10, SUMMER**

 

After a long morning of maths and mind-numbing times tables, the lunchtime bell is a saving grace. Mingyu rushes out of the classroom, one of the first to make it out into the fresh air of the courtyard, and breathes in the oxygen with a visible sigh of relief. Sure, the air conditioning inside beats sweating out here in the shade of the school buildings, but he’s going to make the most of every second of his freedom even if it means walking headfirst into the sweltering summertime heat.

Wonwoo’s nowhere to be found. He’s not at their usual spot near the giant tree overlooking the grassy area beside the library; he’s not _in_ the library. He’s not even at his favourite spot to read, a small bench beside the fifth and sixth grade classrooms on the far side of the building.

In fact, Mingyu hasn't seen Wonwoo for a few days now at lunchtime. The one time he'd been able to catch him after school, Wonwoo had muttered something about an assignment he had to work on and had rushed off before Mingyu could ask any more questions. It's left him feeling directionless, adrift. Without Wonwoo around to orient his days around, without Wonwoo to talk to every lunchtime and every afternoon, Mingyu feels oddly lost. Like he doesn't quite fit in right with everything. 

It's not that Mingyu doesn't have other friends in his grade, he does. But it's not the same. Donghyuk and Junhoe and Mina and Jihyo are great, they're awesome. But it's not the same. It's not  _Wonwoo_.

When Mina asks him if he's going to have lunch with them, Mingyu makes up a half-hearted excuse about doing a favour for a sunbaenim and finally decides to ask this made-up sunbaenim if they’ve seen Wonwoo. He spots Kim Chungha near the area where the fifth graders usually have lunch and waves at her as he approaches.

“Hey, Chungha-sunbaenim.” Mingyu greets the older girl with a friendly smile. She’s in Wonwoo’s class, if anyone’s seen him, maybe she has. “Have you seen Wonwoo anywhere? I can’t find him.”

Chungha immediately looks apologetic, a sadness darting across her face before she can smooth it over with a polite worry.

“Um, yeah. I saw him.” She goes quiet, and Mingyu furrows his brow at the strange reaction. “I… Mingyu, I don’t think you should try and find him.”

“What?” Mingyu splutters, caught completely off-guard. “ _Why?_ ”

“He’s… _God_ , it’s these kids in the year above. They’ve picked him as their target. It’ll blow over soon, I’m sure, they’ve got short attention spans.”

Mingyu lets out a long, even breath through his teeth. Whatever Chungha sees on his face must set off some alarm bell in her head because she reaches out to touch his arm, or grab his elbow, but Mingyu is already stepping back and out of her grip.

“Thanks, sunbaenim. I’ll see you around!”

“Mingyu, _wait_  —”

And then he’s whirling around on his heel, tightly controlled act of pleasantness gone. He knows exactly where Wonwoo is.

The thing about rage is that it's a dominant emotion, it consumes like fire, devouring all else in its path for fuel and kerosene. He doesn't feel the fear or uneasiness he should be at the thought of facing off against a gang of sixth graders, apparently  _infamous_ for their reign of terror on the school's playground. He doesn't even see the pavement in front of him as he cuts along a shortcut between two buildings, a white-hot anger curling at the edges of his vision, blurring everything else like blinders. Chungha-sunbaenim's face, her torn expression and the flicker of terror in her eyes when he'd asked where Wonwoo was floats into his mind. He breaks out into a run.

The school bike racks are the farthest corner of the school grounds that students can access without facing with suspicious questioning and being accused of ulterior, rule-breaking motives. It's the one place that teachers so rarely think to monitor during school hours that you could do or say anything here and get away with it free of punishment. All of this, culminating in the dead-end corner between the boundary of the school gates and the gymnasium, makes it the ideal stomping ground for bullies.

What Mingyu finds when he comes to a stop, sneakers screeching against the asphalt, is Wonwoo, back against the wall and surrounded by a small ring of half a dozen older boys. Sixth graders. Ones Mingyu doesn't recognise by name. But everyone at Anyang Primary School knows their faces well enough to keep a ten-foot radius distance from them at all times.

Something on the ground glints, catching the light. Wonwoo's glasses, Mingyu realises. Shattered like they'd been stepped on, splintered right through each lens into hundreds of tiny shards of glass. 

The boy that's standing slightly in front of the rest, closest to Wonwoo, is holding a book — the one Wonwoo's been reading for the past few days, something non-fiction and to Mingyu's ears, painfully boring, but fascinating enough to monopolise Wonwoo's attention for three days straight now — his fingers pinched around one of the pages.

Time freezes in this strange tableau vivant, like an ancient classical portrait staged for dramatic effect rather than a crime scene. Here, the unwitting protagonist, led into the heart of danger. His possessions stolen from him and destroyed by the villainous enemy and his horde of monsters, hungry for their taste of brutality and wickedness. But then he sees the look on Wonwoo's face, and the reality of the situation comes rushing back to him with a choking swiftness.

“And who do we have _here_?”

The biggest, tallest boy, the one holding Wonwoo's book, has turned around and is staring Mingyu down with this strange gleam in his eyes, a crocodile trying to mask his teeth with the mockery of a smile.

“Kim Mingyu.” Mingyu replies without hesitation, because what use does he have for being afraid when  _Wonwoo_ is scared and terrified and  _he needs him_? “And  _you_ should let go of Wonwoo's book. And apologise for breaking his glasses.”

The boy stares, astonishment rippling across his face, before he lets out a low, derisive guffaw like Mingyu's just told an especially amusing joke.

“Brave for a little fourth grader, aren't you.”

It's not a question, but Mingyu feels compelled to answer it all the same: “Apologise.”

This time, the boy's laugh elicits a round of cackling and sneering from his henchmen, their faces twisted meanly in ridicule. 

“Hear  _that_ , boys? _Kim Mingyu sunbaenim_  wants me to apologise.”

The other boys jeer, jostling amongst each other and clapping their hands like fools in their eagerness to please their leader by laughing at his petty joke.

The boy snaps them a single, vicious look, and silence falls. Fingers still wrapped around the book, he takes a menacing step towards Mingyu. “ _You don't tell me what to do._ ”

“Let go of his book.” Mingyu repeats, voice inching higher, jaw tensing as a flicker of fear cuts right through the adrenaline beating in his pulse. “Leave him alone.”

“Who the _fuck_ are you to try and give me orders, little boy? Do you wanna die, is that it?”

“Byunghun.” It's Wonwoo who speaks up, Wonwoo pushing away from the wall and shifting towards them, movements stiff and hesitant. He draws himself up to his full height cautiously, like it's hurting him to do even that much. “Enough. He's not part of this.”

Byunghun swivels around slowly to face Wonwoo, an almost raptor-like movement as his gaze zigzags from Mingyu to Wonwoo, and back again.

“Ah, but he made himself a part of this when he tried to interrupt us, didn't he?” Byunghun sneers. “Smart little rich boy chaebol. I guess even the kids who have everything need a stupid friend to make themselves look better.”

“We're not friends.” Wonwoo cuts him off cold. It's so blunt and unfeeling, the hurt takes Mingyu entirely by surprise. For the brief moment it takes his brain to catch up with the rest of his body, he feels like the world has been upended beneath his feet, gravity plummeting skywards in reverse. “I barely know him.”

“Really now?” Byunghun arches a brow, his smile darkening cruelly. “So he was about to get his ass kicked all for nothing? Guess that's what you get for trying to be friends with a filthy  _chaebol_  —”

“He's lying,” Mingyu grits out, self-preservation flying out the window, fight or flight instinct forgotten in the surge of anger and hot-tempered betrayal. What the hell is Wonwoo even saying? Why would he —  _why would he say he barely knows him?_ Mingyu came all this way to  _help him_ , to save him, and Wonwoo turns his back on him as if he's nothing. As if _what they are_ to each other is nothing.

_How could he act like Mingyu is nothing to him?_

“You don't know anything — _I'm his friend_. His best friend.”

Wonwoo looks him in the eye, and Mingyu's vision narrows to this single point between them, shrunk down to just him, and Wonwoo, and the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. 

 _Tell them_ , Mingyu wants to shout.  _Tell him it's true._

“I lied to you, Mingyu. I _lied_. You really thought we were _friends_? Because I let you talk my ear off at every given opportunity and I don't complain when you're loud-mouthed and clingy and annoying. Or when you drop things and break everything you touch? You think just because I _put up with you_ , that somehow makes us  _best friends_?”

Mingyu's heart stops. This is the feeling he'll come to associate exclusively with Wonwoo in years to come.  _With heartbreak._  But right now, right now it feels like the bitter disappointment and hollow anger of his dad promising to make it home this weekend and cancelling at the last minute because of work, it feels like the surging rush of failure when he gets a shitty mark on a test he tried his best at. It feels like handing someone the keys to him, giving them all the best parts of who he is and letting them see even the not-so-good parts — the things he's always known are wrong with him, that bother people, that make them secretly hate him even when they pretend to like him because  _god_ , Mingyu wants so badly to be liked, by everyone, _by anyone_  — and watching them fling it into the ocean. 

Mingyu runs. He turns and runs, and keeps running until he's gasping for breath and his body is too busy racing to pump air through his oxygen-deprived lungs to notice the tears spilling down his cheeks. 

 

 

 

 

**AGE 10, AUTUMN**

 

Not having a best friend when you've spent the last three years of your life with the very sun and stars and moon revolving around said best friend is absolute misery.

Mingyu puts up a good front in school around his friends and classmates because he's good at that, he can't  _not_ be. If he were to act as desolate and hopeless as he feels he'd earn himself a one-way ticket to the school counsellor. But Kim Mingyu? All-time heavyweight champion of compartmentalisation. A long-standing gold medallist in pushing things down, so far down beneath the surface that he's capable of convincing even himself that everything's fine, Everything's Just Great.

The only person he can't fool is the one who brought him  _into_ this world to begin with.

“Kim Mingyu.” His mother says, in that Mom™ tone that promises consequences if he attempts to squirrel his way out of this particular conversation yet again. “What's going on with you?”

Mingyu adores his mother. He's a quintessential momma's boy, dutiful and respectful, raised right. He's one of those kids who genuinely loves spending time with his mom, who confides in her about everything. It's been a week since the Incident with Wonwoo, and Park Byunghun. She's given him the luxury of a whole week to give up the game, but for once, Mingyu has no idea what to say or where to even begin. 

“You've eaten only _one bowl_ _of rice_ at dinner for the past week. Even if I wasn't your mother, I'd know something was up because your stomach's speaking louder than you are.”

She's right, of course. It doesn't take a detective or a genius to notice that Mingyu's usual patterns of behaviour are wildly off from base line. He's a growing boy at the cusp of adolescence, meaning his usual meal consists of at least two and a half bowls of rice, minimum. The only times he eats any less are when he's rushing off to hang out at Wonwoo's house, or when he's in a bad mood. Given that he and Wonwoo haven't spoken for a week, the latter is the inevitable conclusion.

That, and the fact that in the comfort of his own home, he doesn't have to pretend to be the happy, upbeat, outgoing Mingyu he is at school.

“It's nothing, eomoni.” He slumps over the kitchen table on top of his crossed arms, contradicting his excuse altogether.

“It's clearly not nothing.” She replies, voice gentle but with a backbone of steel. “You haven't been eating well. And you look like you haven't been sleeping well either.”

Mingyu's not vain, but he's self-conscious about the thought of his current state of mind being so apparent from his exterior that people can tell his sleeping patterns have gone to hell, too. He lifts a hand idly to touch his cheek, frowning slightly at his mom's comment.

“ _Mingyu-yah_.” His mom's features soften, her eyes and her smile a near reflection of his own. He looks away, aching at how much he wants to break and tell her everything, but also resistant to the idea of having to bare himself vulnerable like that again. “Whatever it is, you can talk to me. I'm not going to force you to if you don't want to. But I'm your mother. Of course I'm going to worry about you.”

Mingyu caves slightly, peeking over his elbow to glance at his mom from the corner of his eye. It's her smile that gets him, in the end. The kindness that seeps through the tiredness lining her face — she works  _so hard_ , so tirelessly; it's not that he doesn't want to tell her, he just... doesn't want to burden her with his problems. But making her worry and hover over him like this is a kind of selfishness, too. She shouldn't have to come home to a son who's uncommunicative and unhelpful, moping around the house like he's been through some tragedy instead of a petty schoolyard fight.

“I know. I know I can talk to you.” He says softly with a small tug at the edge of his lips. “I just. I'm trying to figure it out myself. I don't really know how to explain it.”

His mom nods, taking this into consideration before she drops her next question on him.

“It's about Wonwoo, isn't it?”

Mingyu snorts. Is he that transparent? Does he have Wonwoo's name written in the crease of his brow and in the lines of his frown?

“Yeah.” He concedes, begrudgingly. “Yeah, it's Wonwoo.”

“You know, in all the years you boys have been friends, I've never seen you have a fight like this before. And I'm guessing it _was_ a fight judging by your reaction to his name.”

And that's the problem. They've  _never_ had a fight before, not on this scale. Their arguments have always been about childish, unimportant things. Easily solved within minutes, petiness put aside in the interest of peace so they can remain what they are and always have been: best friends.

“Apparently,” Mingyu says slowly. “Wonwoo would disagree with you. He doesn't think we're friends.”

Mingyu's mom furrows her brow at him, perplexed.  _Me, too, mom._

“He said that to you?” She asks, a little sharply. And there's a flicker of bittersweetness that sparks to life at the indignation he hears in her voice. 

“Well. _Yeah._ Pretty much.” Mingyu straightens in his seat. “It was... I don't know, it was weird. It didn't... _sound_ like he didn't mean it. But...”

_But he was also surrounded by a group of sixth grade bullies who'd just smashed up his glasses and were tearing out the pages of his book. Bullies who'd been threatening to beat me up._

“But he still _said_ it. And it hurt, mom. It really...  _really_ hurt.”

His mom exhales, rising to her feet and opening her arms wide. Technically, Mingyu's too old to respond to this kind of thing. But he's  _in pain_ , and he just — he needs a little bit of softness right now. Mingyu gets to his feet, circling around the edge of the dinner table to press himself into his mom's arms, breathing in her perfume and the sweet, citusry smell of their detergent. She curls her fingers in his hair, stroking softly at the back of his head and rubbing at his shoulders. Mingyu doesn't say anything, just sinks into her arms and lets himself soak in the warmth and safety of being hugged.  

“Sometimes,” his mom says. “Sometimes people say things that they don't mean. It doesn't mean that they _should_ , but people say all sorts in the hopes that they can make the rest of the world believe what they want.”

Mingyu thinks about the splinters of glass crushed into the ground, the twisted, mangled wire frames of Wonwoo's glasses.

“People can lie with their words and the things they say, but the parts of us that want to tell the truth... they’re ruled by our hearts. And it’s what people  _do_  because of it that shows us the truth.”

 

 

 

 

 

**AGE 9, SPRING**

Love, Mingyu learns very early on, at an age when most children are still discovering the world around them and facing everything new and exciting with wide eyes and minds full of possibility, means sacrifice. 

Love means that sometimes he doesn’t see his father for weeks and months on end because his work takes him abroad to Tokyo, and Osaka, and Shanghai. And sometimes his mom has to work overtime at the office and can’t always be home to greet Mingyu when he gets home after school or ask him about his day or look at the new drawing he’s brought home. Instead, it’s his grandmother and an endless string of aunties and family friends welcoming Mingyu and Minseo into their homes for the few hours their mother has to stay behind at the office, taking care of them and keeping them distracted from the reality that their parents work themselves to the bone to put a roof over their heads just so they can rarely ever see them.

Mingyu learns how to cook when he’s eight at his grandmother’s side. He listens to her pass down family recipes and tricks of the trade as simple as adding a touch of ginger and cardamom to the kimchi like the most sacred of family heirlooms. He falls in love with the smell of spices and sizzling meat, with the satisfaction of making a homemade meal entirely from scratch. Above all, he falls in love with the feeling of warmth that settles in his stomach like embers, of getting full watching someone he cares about eating the food he made just for them.

It’s such a simple question, accompanied by the half-moon curves of his halmeoni’s eyes, her laughter lines crinkling: _“Have you eaten yet?”_  

It’s a sort of love. 

It’s the kind of love that speaks not with words or declarations, but with acts of service, the sacrifice of your time and energy despite a long day at work or school, to make something for someone you love. 

Mingyu learns to cook because he has to; as the oldest son with a baby sister to take care of and his parents constantly away at work, he has no choice. But loving it is something he chose to do.

Love, Mingyu realises, sometimes means giving up pieces of yourself to make other people happy.

 

 

 

 

**AGE 12, SUMMER**

The notebook has been a solid weight in his backpack, anchoring his shoulder down like the pages are made of solid steel and not paper, all day now. This, combined with the anxiousness and apprehension he’s been carrying with him all day has made each second of the school day absolute agony.

Mingyu shoves his hands into his pockets to keep from fidgeting as he waits for Wonwoo at the school gates. He’s so caught up in his worrying and overthinking that Wonwoo manages to startle him. 

“Hey, you.”

Mingyu lets out a yelp, shooting nearly half a foot into the air before pressing his palm against his chest like he’s about to have a heart attack.

“Oh, calm down, you drama queen. Also, your hand is on the wrong side. Your heart leans to the _left_ of your chest, dumbass.”

Mingyu glances down, and true to Wonwoo’s word, his dominant hand is pressed against the wrong side of where his heart is meant to be. _Smug bastard._

“Hello to you, too, Birthday Boy.” Mingyu smiles, eyes crinkling in earnest happiness at the sight of Wonwoo.

“So, what’re we gonna do today?”

“Hang out at the bookstore and then have dinner at mine, as usual? Sorry if it sounds boring… We can do something else if you like.” 

“Sounds perfect.” Wonwoo says, flashing him a quicksilver smile.

They spend the afternoon hanging out at Wonwoo’s favourite place other than The Park, the bookshop in town with the vintage second-hand book smell that permeates every inch of the store and leaves the whole place smelling like a treasured antique. Mingyu doesn’t mind the smell, or the place, but he’s not one for _books_ or reading. Seeing Wonwoo’s eyes light up when he finds a new book that sparks his interest is worth it, though. It’s always worth it.

Mingyu leafs through the big fancy coffee table art books while Wonwoo saunters through the store, slowly gathering an armful of books ranging from thrillers to classics to romance novels. He reads everything, and anything, with no particular discernment between genres or styles.

Mingyu’s starting to worry maybe he should’ve just gone with the obvious choice and bought Wonwoo a book instead. One that he hopefully hasn’t read yet. Wonwoo seems to be perfectly happy curled up in the armchair in the corner of the shop going through his small tower of books he’s found just within the last hour or so.

 _No._ Mingyu tells himself. _It’s fine._ The notebook will be fine. It’s not a _book_ but it’s something that he won’t be able to find anywhere else.

When it’s time to start heading home, Mingyu heads over to Wonwoo.

“It’s nearing six.” He says, tapping on his watch. Wonwoo nods, and walks off to put the books away, something he insists on doing himself even though the bookstore never has any other patrons and it’s what the bored teenager watching over the store is literally hired to do. Wonwoo always says it’s a matter of principle, or respect or something, for the _books_ , putting each one back in the proper place, in case someone else wants to find it and read it, or take it home with them.

It’s ridiculous, but Mingyu can’t argue with Wonwoo’s logic when it comes to anything about literature and reading given that he doesn’t touch books unless it’s a mandatory requirement for school.

Mingyu’s mom greets them when they get home, her happy birthday echoed by Minseo’s who says hello before vanishing up to her room.

“Mingyu was so excited for your birthday, Wonwoo.” Mingyu’s mom says before Mingyu can spontaneously die on the spot. “He’s been worrying about it all week, what to get you for a present.” 

“He shouldn’t have worried, eomoni. I’d be happy with anything he got me.” Wonwoo replies, gracious and so endearingly charismatic.

To Mingyu, he says: “I can’t believe you’ve been worrying about this _all week_.” Mingyu attempts to elbow him in the side but Wonwoo dodges smoothly out of the way as he follows Mingyu’s mom into the kitchen.

“He even got up early this morning to make you seaweed soup.” 

“ _Really?_ Wow.” Wonwoo breathes, the look of awe on his expression genuine enough that Mingyu doesn’t immediately roll his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s very impressive, I know.” Mingyu blusters, waving a hand in the air as he heads over to the pot on the stove that he’d asked his mom to heat up for them before they got home. “It’s not that hard to make, whatever.”

“No, it really _is_ impressive, Mingyu-yah. You’re probably the only kid our age who knows how to make seaweed soup.”

“That’s right. Don’t get all embarrassed now, Mingyu. It’s sweet that you were so prepared for this.” 

“ _Mom_ , please.” Mingyu whines, resisting the urge to pout. “You’re the only one embarrassing me right now.”  

“Well, I know Mingyu has something he wants to give you so I’ll give you boys a few moments and then we’ll have dinner.”

Mingyu sighs, watching his mom leave the kitchen before turning to face Wonwoo with a look honed into careful neutrality.

“A _gift_ , huh?” Wonwoo says.

“If someone mocks me _one more time_ today, I am going to leave this house.”

“It’s cute. You’re cute.”

“ _Do you want your present, or not?_ ” Mingyu grumbles.

“I want my present.” Wonwoo says, a teasing smile still hinting at his lips. Mingyu gestures for him to sit on one of the kitchen stools as he opens up his backpack to take out the notebook. It’s wrapped in a fine layer of wrapping paper, cerulean blue striped with gold. He’d bought it especially for this.

“It’s… _Look_ , if you hate it just tell me. I have back-ups ready and waiting to go.” 

“ _Mingyu_.” Wonwoo chastises. “I’m not going to hate it. It’s from you, of course I’ll love it. Whatever it is.”

Mingyu eyes Wonwoo, as if to ascertain his level of sincerity, and then holds it out for Wonwoo to take. 

“Don’t read the card out loud. Or ever. It’s stupid.”

Wonwoo’s smile widens. “Oh, I’ll be sure to take it out at the dinner table.”

“ _Hyung_ ,” Mingyu groans.

Wonwoo takes his time unwrapping the notebook, which Mingyu appreciates because _dammit_ , he spent at least half an hour making sure the edges were perfect and the tape was absolutely straight, but also _hates_ because it’s prolonging each second until Wonwoo finally sees the gift. The notebook is a deep ocean blue, one of those fancy ones with a ribbon to mark your place and made out of thick, heavy paper.

Wonwoo opens the cover, and suddenly Mingyu can’t breathe. 

Inside, on the first page, he’s drawn a sketch of Wonwoo. It’s a drawing he’s laboured over for days, and weeks before that in the planning and designing. It’s a picture of Wonwoo at a desk, a feather quill in his hand like you’d see in portraits or caricatures of Shakespeare. It’s probably one of the best things Mingyu’s ever drawn to date, and he’d inked it after the sketch was done so it wouldn’t rub off against the pages when Wonwoo closed the notebook.

Underneath the drawing, in careful Hangeul: _For the book you’ll someday write._

It’s silent. Wonwoo hasn’t spoken a word yet, and that terrifies Mingyu. This was a bad idea, he should’ve just gone with a stupid book. _Any book._ Wonwoo loves them all, after all. He shouldn’t have picked the notebook, why did he have to go for something _original_ and handmade?

“Hyung,” Mingyu prompts after the silence has tortured him for long enough. “You… you haven’t said anything yet. _Please_ say something. Please. Just say you hate it and I’ll throw it away and go.”

“I love it.” Wonwoo looks up, and there’s an unspeakable rawness to the sheen in his eyes. As if he’s laid bare a piece of himself and Mingyu’s glimpsing it through this rare and profound echo of his soul.

On the playground at school, they’ve crowned Wonwoo with the title of Ice King, the boy that could stare down winter and win. But the people who call him that, who accuse him of feeling nothing, of being cold and emotionless and detached have never seen his face lit up with the brilliance of awe and wonder and disbelief all at once. They’ve never seen how affection makes the tiny stars in his eyes sparkle and how beautiful he looks with gratitude curving his smile like he’s guarding something precious. 

“I love it, Mingyu. _Thank you._ ”

Mingyu flushes to the tips of his ears as Wonwoo pulls him into a tight hug. He moves as if on autopilot, wrapping his arms around Wonwoo and burying his face into Wonwoo's shoulder. 

He's distracted throughout the rest of dinner, the image of Wonwoo's face and his smile, the feeling of his arms around him, keeping him from being fully present despite the odd looks his mom and Minseo keep shooting him.

Mingyu fills a bowl of seaweed soup for Wonwoo, miraculously without spilling it across the table. And after that they have dinner, all homemade seafood dishes Mingyu and his mom put together, and cake Mingyu baked with his halmeoni's help. Wonwoo eats everything and eagerly goes in for seconds.

It's only months later when they're having dinner at Wonwoo's house with a rare appearance of both his parents on the same evening and Wonwoo politely turns down the main course lobster for his own separate meal prepared by the chef that Mingyu discovers Wonwoo can't eat seafood. 

 

 

 

 

**AGE 10, AUTUMN**

  

Wonwoo looks thinner when Mingyu corners him after school leaving the library, his cheeks sharper and a little more defined .

Mingyu had waited nearly an hour at the school gates until he'd given up and decided to loiter in the courtyard outside the library in case Wonwoo showed up. He looks thinner, or maybe that's just Mingyu's imagination and the wild, fanciful distractions its travelled far and wide on picturing what Wonwoo's been getting up in this week and a half they've been away from each other. Distractions like maybe Wonwoo had found a new friend, someone cooler and smarter and funnier than Mingyu to replace him in the meantime, like maybe Wonwoo was doing perfectly fine without him. 

Seeing him like this, looking definitively  _not_  completely okay and like he's off having fun with his newfound best friends, makes Mingyu feel, selfishly, a little better. A little pleased knowing that he's not the only one who's been suffering.

And then whatever fleeting satisfaction he'd felt knowing Wonwoo had been suffering some proportionate amount of unhappines immediately turns to ash and dust and the feeling of swallowed sand grating against his mouth.

Because Wonwoo's limping. Or, not  _limping_ , nothing appears broken, but he's not walking steadily. And Mingyu knows him. He knows him like he knows the shape of his own hands and fingers and the scar running down his forearm from when he fell off the playground when he was six. He's so finely tuned with the language of Wonwoo's expressions and his movements that watching him stalk stiffly from the entrance of the library right past Mingyu that it's impossible not to see the twinge in his face when his backpack thumps against his shoulders, the way he's holding himself like every step has to be small and carefully calculated beforehand, and the tightness in his features from trying to keep all of this from showing.

Mingyu's heart in his throat, in his ears, it feels like its everywhere, hammering this alarm bell of urgent panic.

“Wonwoo! _Wonwoo!_ Wait up, wait for me!”

He stumbles after Wonwoo, falling clumsily into step with him, eyes blown wide like he's seeing him for the first time and realising how  _wrong_ everything is.

There's a fading bruise on Wonwoo's cheek, mottled green and indigo stained from his ear to the middle of his left cheekbone.

“What happened to you?” Wonwoo pauses, gives Mingyu a look like he's staring right through him, beyond him — and it hurts, _it hurts_ , like he's reaching into his chest, fingers digging right into his wide-open heart — and keeps walking.

Mingyu reaches out before he can think anything of it, hand shooting out to grab at Wonwoo's shoulder, or the strap of his backpack,  _anything_ , to keep him from going any farther without telling him why there's a bruise on his cheek and  _why he's walking like he's hurt_. He doesn't think before he acts, and Wonwoo flinches, buckling immediately under the contact.

A cry of anguish slips from Mingyu's teeth and he springs back like he's been burned, both palms open and splayed like he's spooked a wild animal. 

“ _I'm sorry_ , I'm sorry  _—_ I didn't mean to.”

Wonwoo grimaces, forcing his features back to a semblance of passivity. And he's so good at it, he's so good at pretending everything's normal, it's almost virtuosic. He's always been the consummate actor. Forget compartmentalisation, Wonwoo's a bona fide _prodigy_  at the art of evasion. Why didn't Mingyu see it sooner? 

“Not your fault. Don't worry about it.” Wonwoo says, in a tone that's paper-thin and even less convincing to Mingyu's ears.

“What — _did Byunghun _—_ did they do this to you_ _?_ ”

Wonwoo doesn't flinch, but his eyes tighten infinitesimally and it's even worse than a flinch. 

The anger and betrayal that's been languishing in him for the past week and more, rising and falling every time he thought about Wonwoo and how  _amazing_ and  _happy_ Wonwoo must have been without him, living his life free of Mingyu's loud-mouthed noisiness and chaos and unfortunate tendency to break things, crystallises into an exquisite, searing heat in the backs of his eyes.

“ _Wonwoo-hyung._ ” Mingyu's eyes shutter, his vision going blurring and unfocused. “Why didn't you say anything? _Why didn't you —_ ”

There's a crushing, burning pressure on his chest and Mingyu fights through it, a wet, threadbare gasp tearing from his lips.

“I didn't want them to hurt you.”

Mingyu sways forwards slightly like his centre of gravity is tipping off-centre, pulled by an invisible, immutable force.

“ _Hyung._ ” Mingyu cries. Wonwoo takes a step towards him, and Mingyu — falls into him, collapsing into the arms curling around him, drawn like a crumbling star into an inescapable gravity, careful even as he falls apart not to press too hard against Wonwoo lest he hurt him more. Wonwoo holds him so close Mingyu's sure it's hurting him but he can't bring himself to let go. His heartbeat pounding against Wonwoo's chest, his ribcage, is like thunder.

Wonwoo presses his cheek against Mingyu's hair, his chin resting against Mingyu's head as he brushes his fingers lightly through the hair beside his ear.

“I wasn't going to let them touch you.”

 

 

 

 

**AGE 10, WINTER**

  

It’s stupid, the way it happens. But Mingyu’s at an age when his impulse control is a barely formed blueprint in his chemical makeup, and doing dumb things is a prime form of social currency. At least, that’s what this incident gets written off as, when the official reports come in and his medical record is filed away.

Mingyu is reckless, but he isn't stupid. He's fully aware, fully conscious, of what he's doing when he makes this bargain with Park Byunghun.

When you make a deal with the devil, you should, of course, always read the fine print. But here, the fine print doesn't matter. The terms of the contract, really, don't even matter. He shakes hands with Byunghun, and signs away his fate in exchange for them leaving Wonwoo alone, and that's enough. That's all he has to know. And at first, it almost feels like victory. 

Things with Wonwoo go back to normal. They don't talk about Byunghun, and what happened during that week, again. 

True to his word, Byunghun doesn't seek Wonwoo out again. He doesn't, however, do anything to Mingyu either, and that's the most worrying part of all this. It's like the stories where there's a monster hiding in the shadows, biding his time and  _waiting_ for the right moment to catch his prey unaware.

It takes two months for Byunghun to make his move. Two months of blissful normality and ignoring the monster lurking in the dark, waiting.

Until it happens, Mingyu's been instinctively romanticising in it his head, helpless to the surreal fairy tale nature of it all. Trading places with Wonwoo in hell to protect him, sacrificing himself so Wonwoo can be safe. He's been picturing himself as this hero, the selfless lead character giving up something precious to him to save his best friend. He's confident enough that when one of the boys in Byunghun's gang asks him to meet them after school, he makes an excuse to Wonwoo at lunch about needing to run errands for his mom without a second thought.

He's confident even as the boys take him to the far side of the neighbourhood, nearly a half an hour walk from school, to the abandoned scaffolding of a whole block of unfinished apartment buildings. It feels like a story right up until Byunghun dares him to climb the three storey scaffolding.

“C’mon, Mingyu. It's just _one_ tiny favour. We were hanging out there the other day and I left my hat up there. All you have to do is grab it for me.” Byunghun says, lips twisting into a vicious smile.

Does he know?  _Does he know Mingyu hates heights? That's it not so much a hatred as a deep-rooted, unshakeable compulsion of fear?_

“Remember, we had a  _deal_. Unless you're going back on your _word_ , in which case I'd be happy to go back on mine.” Byunghun tilts his head, and even the insinuation is one that sends a chill through Mingyu. “Besides it's not even that high.”

Mingyu bites at his lip, glancing away to eye the scaffolding and the way the wind whistles through its empty bones. It’s stood all this time without collapse or any major incidents, but who knows if today is the day fate decides to tempt its rusted hinges.

“Yeah, Gyu,” One of the other boys chimes in with their ringleader. “What's the big deal? We've all been up there before.”

“Don’t chicken out on us now, Gyu.”

“What colour's your hat?”

“Bright red. You can't miss it. It's a baseball cap.”

Mingyu exhales, and shrugs off his backpack and begins walking backwards towards the scaffolding. He gives Byunghun and his lackeys a lazy two-fingered salute when he reaches the edge, bleeding pure bravado while his insides feel like they've tangled themselves into a labyrinth. He turns slowly around, curling his hands fists by his side to keep them from shaking as he squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to take several long, deep breaths.

“What’s the hold up? We don’t have all day!” 

There’s a series of echoing sneers and muffled laughter, but Mingyu can’t hear them properly through the rushing that’s building like a crescendo in his ears, the sound of his own blood beating in his head. 

He begins to climb. The scaffolding doesn’t immediately crumble beneath his weight, which is at least somewhat promising as far as his impending death goes. The higher he gets, the less the beams seem to shake, or maybe it’s just his hands and how numb they’ve gotten from being pressed up against the steel for so long. There’s a faint breeze tangling his hair, and it feels like cold fingers pulling at his clothes, his neck, as if gravity itself is luring him away from the scaffolding, willing him to weaken, just for a moment.

He couldn’t let go at this point even if he tried — his fear of falling outweighs his panic at the thought of being so high up.

And how miserable a headstone _that_ would make. Here lies Kim Mingyu. He died as he lived: being a complete fucking dumbass.

When he reaches the top of the railing, he forces himself to swivel around so he’s clinging to the scaffolding so he’s looking down at Byunghun and the rest. He can feel his heartbeat in his mouth, the taste of metal, of mercury, staining his tongue like blood. 

“View’s great from up here!” He calls down, his voice braver than he feels. “Really puts into perspective what big assholes you all look like.”

“Better keep your eyes up. Your corpse is gonna look real sad all smushed and broken if you fall.” Byunghun says.

“Fuck you, Park.” Mingyu huffs out a humourless, ragged laugh. The swear word, usually an expression of rebellious liberation, hangs like a weight on his tongue.

“That’s the spirit, Kim.” Byunghun salutes him. “You can say it to my face if you ever make it back down here.”

The blood drains from his face. Because _that_ was the end game here all along, wasn’t it? Getting him up here, stuck and shaking and too frozen in his mind-numbing fear to climb back down. A shudder ripples up his spine, the first tremors of an earthquake pinging off the Richter scale. And the best part of it all is that he asked for this.  _He agreed_ , he shook hands with the Devil, signed away his right to claim victimhood blinded by the belief he was doing something good,  _something brave_.

From up high, Mingyu watches Byunghun snigger, his cronies joining him, their faces warped by the distance, by the dizziness creeping up on him.

“You can’t just —” He chokes, the oxygen struggling to get through the tightness blocking up his throat. “You can’t just _leave_ me up here.”

Byunghun shrugs, the grin on his face turned blatantly nasty, _taunting_. “Who’s gonna stop us?” 

Maybe, Mingyu thinks, maybe he really is going to die up here. And if he does, the thing he sees in the world will be Park Byunghun’s ugly, sneering face, all warped and blurry from the vertigo and the way the world around him is slowly disintegrating.

Mingyu closes his eyes, and thinks of Wonwoo instead.

If Wonwoo were here,  _if Wonwoo were here_ he'd never have let him agree to this, he'd have shut him out and called him an idiot for even  _thinking_ about doing this, and now he’s really going to die without ever getting to tell Wonwoo that he doesn't regret anything about being friends with him, ever, that he'd do it again, he'd choose to protect him, always, even if meant dying up here trapped in his worst nightmare, and Mingyu’s really going to miss him, Mingyu _really_  —

“ _Mingyu?_ ”

The sound of Wonwoo’s voice sends a shockwave through him, and in that moment between shock and recognition, his fingers slip.

Mingyu slips, and the force of his hand sliding off the metal railing sends his body reeling backwards, propelled by the relentless indifference of gravitational force. He falls.

The last thing he hears before he hits the ground is Wonwoo screaming his name.

 

 

 

 

 

**AGE 10, WINTER**

 

The world is all white and bleached colourless around him when he wakes up, and the first thing Mingyu registers in his mind after the fact that everything smells like antiseptic is that he can't move.

His arm is all white, too, and there are straps holding him down so he  _can't move_. His pulse jumpstarts with a panic, eyes widening as a low rumble of bewilderment and fear and  _pain, pain pain_ crawls up his throat. 

“ _Don't._ ”

Wonwoo? Wonwoo. His brain readjusts fuzzily to the thought of Wonwoo being here because Mingyu can't turn his head. 

Wonwoo appears above him, hazy and soft, like the light moves strangely in this room. Or maybe that's just his head. He looks tired, and worn,  _strained_ somehow as if he's looking at something terrible.

“Mingyu-yah.”

Wonwoo blinks, and his eyes go all wet and watery and that frightens Mingyu because he's never seen Wonwoo cry before. He didn't know Wonwoo  _cried_.

“You're so _stupid_. Why did you have to do that? _Who told you to do that?_ ”

That's not very nice, Mingyu thinks, his thoughts slow and clumsy, meandering from his brain to his lips and then stopping right there. He wants to argue, wants to say  _I'm not stupid, I knew what I was doing._ But everything hurts and it's not worth the effort of trying to make Wonwoo understand right now. Maybe later, when it hurts less just to breathe.

Wonwoo sucks in a shaky breath, swiping the back of his hand across his face.  _Don't cry_ , Mingyu thinks. He twitches the fingers on his other hand but he doesn't think it carries quite the same meaning.

Wonwoo looks exhausted, and later Mingyu will find out it's because Park Byunghun arranged for Wonwoo to be there watching Mingyu attempt to face off against his greatest mortal fear. Amongst the conspiracy theorists who believe the Accident resulted from something more sinsister than a dare, there's differing opinions on whether or not Byunghun intended for him to fall. Most people who know Byunghun, who've suffered at his hands before, tend to agree that he did.

Wonwoo was the first one to reach him. He found him with his arm broken in three places, and the fractures in his collarbones and his ribs.

Apparently, in the rush of adrenaline and need to  _not die_ , his survival instinct had kicked in and Mingyu had managed to slow his descent by grabbing at the railing. He'd still fallen from a distance of nearly fifteen feet. 

When Wonwoo begins to cry, Mingyu makes a distressed noise at the back of his throat and shifts his non-broken arm towards Wonwoo, his palm upturned.

Wonwoo takes his hand, curling his fingers slowly through Mingyu's until their hands are pressed together, fingers interlocked.

 _Why did you do it, Mingyu?_  

“Couldn't... couldn't let them hurt you again.”

 

 

 

 

**AGE 11, SPRING**

 

 

Mingyu gets a red cast for his arm, and after six weeks, he's freed from the hospital with strict instructions not to engage in any physical activity for the remainder of the time his arm needs to heal. 

Wonwoo gets the honours of being the first to write on his cast. He's the one who organises Mingyu's homecoming party, complete with balloons and a banner that says  _WELCOME HOME_ which Mingyu suspects is actually designed for soldiers returning from active duty.

Mingyu's only major regret is that he's missed so many weeks of school. Despite what most adults might imagine, being stuck in a bed for twenty-four hours straight every day when you're a kid is the exact  _opposite_ of what fun sounds like. Wonwoo spends every afternoon hanging out with him without complaint. They make their way through marathons of anime, Studio Ghibli, Disney and Pixar. And Wonwoo tutors Mingyu through every missed piece of classwork and homework he doesn't understand.

The six weeks fly past. To both their surprises, it's Mingyu who brings up Byunghun first in the fourth week of his recovery.

He's sitting cross-legged on his bed across from Wonwoo, drawing in his sketchbook while Wonwoo reads, when he speaks up.

“Hyung.” Wonwoo looks up, pausing in the midst of his book.

“Yeah, Mingyu?”

“Promise me that if something's ever bothering you, you'll tell me.” Mingyu's thought a lot about how he wants to say this, how he can make Wonwoo promise him exactly what he's saying. “I don't care if it's assholes like Park Byunghun, or something else, just... Promise me you won't shut me out like that again.”

Wonwoo's eyes, always impenetrable and so hard to read, seem to shine with a resolve, a quiet determination that echoes Mingyu's. 

“I promise. From now on I... _I promise._ ” Wonwoo whispers, looking at Mingyu like he's swearing something precious and unbreabable to him as he takes Mingyu's outstretched hand. They fall quiet in front of the TV, cartoons flickering on the screen as Mingyu clutches tightly at Wonwoo's hand with his good hand.

“Do you have a marker?” Wonwoo says out of nowhere when the cartoon cuts to a commercial.

Mingyu digs around his covers for a bit and fishes one out before handing it over to him. “What're you gonna write?”

Wonwoo doesn't say anything, just takes the marker and finds a place on Mingyu's cast that's big enough for him to write on. Mingyu watches with his brow furrowed as Wonwoo scrawls something along his elbow that's too far on the other side of his arm to see.

He pouts as Wonwoo draws away and caps the marker. “ _Hyung._ ” Mingyu whines softly. “What did you write? I can't see.”

“That's the point.” Wonwoo says smugly, snuggling back down into the covers beside Mingyu, his left side pressed along the length of Mingyu's right side. Mingyu grumbles and makes a fuss, pouting fiercely, but Wonwoo refuses to break.

He finds out what it says, eventually, when he gets up to go to the bathroom and holds his arm up in the mirror. In Wonwoo's spidery, messy handwriting, along the back of his elbow, there are four characters:

_Let's be strong together._

Mingyu swallows, feeling heat spike and prickle at the back of his eyes. He doesn't cry, _barely_ , just barely swallowing the taste of aching and saltwater down, but he has to wipe hastily at his eyes and splash his face with some water before he goes back out and joins Wonwoo on hus bed. Wonwoo wraps his arm around Mingyu, careful of his cast, and lets Mingyu lace their fingers back together.

Later, a nurse will find them fast asleep, curled together on the bed like this, still holding hands as if the spaces between them were made for each other. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand we are BACK, once again. pt. 2 & pt. 3 of the flashbacks should hopefully be updated much faster! as you might have noticed, the chapter count for afilaw has indeed gone up, meaning i can spread out my word count a little between chapters and still have some breathing time between chapters. 
> 
> thank you so much for your patience and thank you to everyone for all the love, support, and encouragement i've gotten for this fic. thank you for loving afilaw as much as i do.
> 
> please let me know what you think in the comments, or via [twitter](http://twitter.com/bisexualgyu) / [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/gyuwu) !!


End file.
